IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


1.1 


11.25 


[21    12.5 


^  1^ 


■  2.2 
2f   l^    BII2.0 


K 


j^^^ 


U   il.6 


I 


^  n^  ") 


Pholograiiiic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


33  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  H.Y.  MSSO 

(716)S73-4S03 


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4 


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^ 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notas/Notea  tachniquaa  at  bibliographiquaa 


The  Instituta  has  attamptad  to  obtain  tha  baat 
original  copy  availabia  for  filming.  Faaturas  of  this 
copy  which  may  ba  bibliographicaily  uniqua, 
which  may  altar  any  of  tha  imagas  in  tha 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


n 


D 


n 


a 
0 


D 


D 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


I      I    Covers  damaged/ 


Couverture  endommagAe 


Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurl»e  et/ou  pelliculAe 


I      I    Cover  title  missing/ 


Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

Coloured  maps/ 

Cartes  gAographiques  en  couleur 


□    Coloured  inl  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

I      I   Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 


Planches  et/ou  illustrations  9n  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material/ 
Reli6  avac  d'autres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  re  liure  serr6e  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  IntArieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  t'>sse 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  aJoutAas 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissant  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  Atait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pes  AtA  filmtes. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  supplAmentaires; 


L'institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qj'il  lui  a  AtA  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
da  cat  axemplaire  qui  sont  peut-Atre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modif^'^ation  dans  la  m6thode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  imdiqute  ci-dessous. 


I      I   Coloured  pages/ 


Pages  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagies 

Pages  restored  and/oi 

Pages  restaur^as  et/ou  pelliculies 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxei 
Pages  dicolortes.  tachet^es  ou  pIquAes 


pn    Pages  damaged/ 

r~~|   Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 

r~]   Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 


□Pages  detached/ 
Pages  d6tachAes 


Showthrough/ 
Transparence 


I      I    Quality  of  print  varies/ 


Quality  inigale  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  material/ 
Comprend  du  materiel  supplimantaire 

Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 


D 


Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
Obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  M  filmtes  A  nouveau  de  fa^on  A 
obi'inir  la  mailleure  image  possible. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Co  document  est  filmA  au  taux  de  reduction  indiquA  ci-dessous. 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

26X 

30X 

J 

12X 

16X 

aox 

24X 

28X 

32X 

The 
to  til 


The 
post 
of  tl 
film! 


Orig 
begi 
the  I 
sion 
otha 
first 
sion 
or  ill 


The 
shall 
TINI 
whii 

Map 
difffl 
entii 
begi 
righi 
requ 
metl 


The  copy  filmed  here  hae  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 


L'exemplaire  film*  fut  reprodult  grflce  it  la 
gAnArosltA  de: 


Dana  Porter  Art*  Library 
Univanity  of  Waterloo 

The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quslity 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  lai>'<;  page  with  a  printed  or  Illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustroted  impression. 


Dana  Porter  Arts  Library 
University  of  Waterloo 

Les  images  suivantes  ont  4tA  reproduites  avec  ie 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  at 
de  la  nettetA  de  l'exemplaire  f  iimA,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 

Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
pepier  est  imprimte  sent  fiimte  en  commenpant 
par  Ie  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'Impresslon  ou  d'iilustration,  soit  par  Ie  second 
plat,  salon  Ie  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  filmte  en  commenpant  par  la 
premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'Impresslon  ou  d'iilustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernlAre  pege  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte.  , 


The  last  recorded  freme  on  eech  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  — '»•  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED'T.  or  the  symbol  y  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 

Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  n-iy  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diegrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaftra  sur  ia 
derniire  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  Ie 
cas:  ie  symbols  — ►  signifie  "A  SUIVRE  ",  ie 
symbols  ▼  signifie  "FIN". 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  Atre 
filmte  A  des  taux  de  reduction  dSffirents. 
Lorsque  Ie  document  est  trop  grand  pour  Atre 
reprodult  en  un  seul  cliche,  il  est  fiimi  d  partir 
de  i'angla  supArieur  gauche,  de  gauche  A  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  Ie  nombre 
d'imeges  nAcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mtthode. 


1 

2 

3 

32X 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

cc 


/ 


/ 


CORD    AND    CREESE 


/ 


H  Vlovel 


BY 


JAMES'^^DE  MILLE^ 


ADTHOR  OP 
"THB  DODOB  club"  "cRTPTOGRAM"  "a  castle  in  SPAIN"  KIO. 


fl/< 


p= 


127682 


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0 
0 

I 

i 


11 


\ 

Lli 

2 

5 


NEW    YORK 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 


P^PE«TY  OF  THE  LIBRARJ^ 

L/r^rHtRSITY  OF  WATtJ^LOQ 


BRS 


Copyright,  1869,  by  Harper  &  Broth 
Copyright,  1897,  by  Mrs.  Annik  Db  Millb 


■      CHAF 

• 

1             ' 

.   THE 

1 

SE 

1            " 

.    A  LI 

III, 

.   A  M 

IV, 

.    SINK 

V. 

,   THE 

VI, 

.   THE 

SIl 

VII. 

MAN 

VIII, 

,   THE 

IX. 

THE 

X. 

BEAl 

XI. 

THE 

XII. 

THE 

XIII. 

THE 

KIV, 

TWO 

XV. 

JOUR 

XVI. 

HUSE 

XVII. 

THE 

FOl 

XVIII. 

ENQl 

XIX. 

THE 

XX. 

FRAN 

XXI. 

THE 

XXII. 

THE 

XXIII. 

THE 

XXIV, 

BEAT 

XXV. 

THE 

XXVI. 

CLASl 

XXVII. 

JOUR 

XXVIII. 

THIS 

XXIX. 

BEAT] 

XXX. 

SMITl 

CONTENTS. 


CHAP.  PAGE 

L  THE  LETTER  FROM  BEYOND  THE 

SEA I 

n.   A  LIFE  TRAGEDY 8 

HL   A  MAN  OVERBOARD      .      .      .      .  I4 

IV.    SINKING  IN  DEEP  WATERS   .      .  21 

V.   THE  MYSTERY  OF  COFFIN  ISLAND  25 
VI.   THE  DWELLER  IN  THE   SUNKEN 

SHIP 32 

VII.   MANUSCRIPT  FOUND  IN  A  BOTTLE  37 

VIII.  THE  SIGNAL  OF   FIRE        ...  44 

IX.   THE  MALAY  PIRATE    ....  53 

X.   BEATRICE 60 

XI.   THE  IMPROVISATORE  ....  66 

XII.   THE  STRUGGLE  FOR   LIFE     .      .  71 

XIII.   THE  BADINAGE  OF  OLD  FRIENDS  8 1 

KIV,   TWO  LETTERS 87 

XV.   JOURNAL  OF  PAOLO  LANGHETTI  gi 

XVI.    HUSBAND  AND   WIFE   .      .      .      .  lOI 
XVII.   THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  AFRICAN 

FOREST 108 

XVIII.   ENQUIRIES 115 

XIX.   THE  DEAD  ALIVE 12$ 

XX.   FRANK'S  STORY 129 

XXI.   THE  DIVING  BUSINESS       .      .      .  I34 

XXII.   THE  ISLET  OF  SANTA  CRUZ       .  138 

XXHI.   THE  OCEAN  DEPTHS    .      .      .      .  I4I 

XXIV.   BEATRICE'S  JOURNAL  .      .      .      .  I52 

XXV.   THE  BYZANTINE  HVMNISTS  .      .  163 

XXVI.   CLASPED   HANDS 170 

XXVII.   JOURNAL  OF   PAOLO  LANGHETTI  1 73 

XXVIII.   THIS  MUST  END 182 

XXIX.   BEATRICE'S  JOURNAL         .      .      .  184 

XXX.    SMITHERS  &   CO 187 


CHAP. 

XXXI. 

XXXII. 
XXXIII. 
XXXIV. 

XXXV. 
XXXVI. 

XXXVII. 

XXXVIII. 

XXXIX. 

XL. 

XLI. 

XLII. 
XLIIi. 
XLIV. 

XLV. 

XLVI. 
XLVII. 

..  rviii. 

Xi  IX. 

L. 

LI. 

Lli. 

LIII. 

LIV. 

LV. 

LVI. 

LV.I. 

LV.II. 

LIX. 


PAGB 

196 

199 

,    204 

,    208 

.    211 


CON- 


LX. 


PAOLO  LANGHETTI     . 

FLIGHT 

"PICKED  UP  ADRIFT" 

ON  THE  TRACK     .     . 

BEATRICE'S  RECOVERY 

THE  AFFAIRS  OF    SMITHERS  & 

CO 

THE   "PROMETHEUS 
THE  SECRET     .      . 
THE  CAB      .      .      . 
DISCOVERIES     .      . 
THEY  MEET  AGAIN 
LANGHETTI'S  ATTEMPT 
THE  STRANGER      .      . 
THE   stranger's  STORY 

Beatrice's     journal 

CLUDED    .      ,      . 
THE  LAST  ESCAPE 
ROUSED  AT  LAST 
WHO  IS  HE?     .      . 
THE  RUN  ON  THE  BANK 
THE  BANK   DIRECTORS 
A  STRUGGLE     .      .      . 
FACE  TO  FACE       .      . 
THE  COTTAGE        .      . 
THE  WORM  TURNS     . 
ON  THE  ROAD        .      . 
FATHER  AND  SON      . 
MRS.    COMPTON'S  SECRET 
THE  MALAY'S  VENGEANCE 
AevTE      TE?,€VTalov      iairaafiw 

Su/iEV 302 

CONCLUSION 304 


2l6 
223 
228 
231 
234 
237 
243 
246 
251 

255 
258 
261 
264 
267 
27a 
274 

277 
284 

285 
287 
290 

293 
300 


ID 

J 

0 
0 

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2: 
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On  the 

')aily  Ne\ 

[he  ship  / 

^ales.    A 
yet  ex 
[his  ship  w 
|he  usual  e 
beset  the 
ielivery  of 
khe  street  cJ 
|the  latest  hi 
gathered  frc 
|the  officers 

At  the  lo\ 

|arge  warel 

ipper  extre 

sign,  which 

fetters  the  v 

com: 


The  gene 
louse  show 
Brandon  we 
chants,  gen 
that  sort. 

On  the  n 

hvere  in  the  i 

)ne  was  ai 

iind,  benevi 

hier  of  the 

lunior  partn 


CORD  AND  CREESE 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  LETTER  FROM  BEYOND  THE  SEA 


On  the  morning  of  July  21,  1846,  the 
laily  News  announced  the  arrival  of 
|he  ship  Rival  at  Sydney,  New  South 

^ales.  As  ocean  steam  navigation  had 
liot  yet  extended  so  far,  the  advent  of 
[his  ship  with  the  English  mail  created 
Ihe  usual  excitement.  An  eager  crowd 
beset  the  post-office,  waiting  for  the 
lelivery  of  the  mail;  and  little  knots  at 
[he  street  corners  were  busily  discussing 
ihe  latest  hints  at  news  which  had  been 
gathered  from  papers  brought  ashore  by 
Ihe  officers  or  passengers. 

At  the  lower  end  of  King  Street  was  a 

|arge  warehouse,  with  an   office  at  the 

ipper  extremity,  over  which  was  a  new 

sign,  which  showed  with  newly  gilded 

letters  the  words : 

COMPTON  &  BRANDON. 

The  general  appearance  of  the  ware- 
house showed  that  Messrs.  Compton  & 
|Tiiandon  were  probably  commission  mer- 
cliants,  general  agents,  or  something  of 
that  sort. 

On  the  morning  mentioned  two  men 
[were  in  the  inner  office  of  this  warehouse. 
)ne  was  an  elderly  gentleman,  with  a 
iind,  benevolent  aspect,  the  senior  part- 
ner of  the  firm.  The  other  was  the 
Junior  partner,  and  in  every  respect  pre- 


sented a  marked  contrast  to  his  com- 
panion. 

He  had  a  face  of  rather  unusual  ap- 
pearance, and  an  air  which  in  England 
is  usually  considered  foreign.  His  feat- 
ures were  regular — a  straight  nose,  wide 
brow,  thin  lips,  and  square,  massive  chin. 
His  complexion  was  olive,  and  his  eyes 
were  of  a  dark  hazel  color,  with  a  peculi- 
arity about  them  which  is  not  usually 
seen  in  the  eye  of  the  Teutonic  or  Celtic 
race,  but  is  sometimes  found  among  the 
people  of  the  south  of  Europe,  or  in  the 
East.  It  is  difficult  to  find  a  name  for 
this  peculiarity.  It  may  be  seen  some- 
times in  the  gypsy,  sometimes  in  the 
more  successful  among  those  who  call 
themselves  "  spiritual  mediums,"  or 
among  the  more  powerful  mesmerizers. 
Such  an  eye  belonged  to  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte, whose  glance  at  times  could  make 
the  boldest  and  greatest  among  his  mar- 
shals quail.  What  is  it  ?  Magnetism  ? 
Or  the  revelation  of  the  soul  ?    Or  what  ? 

In  this  man  there  were  other  things 
which  gave  him  the  look  of  the  great  Na- 
poleon. The  contv^ur  of  feature  was  the 
same  ;  and  on  his  brow,  broad  and  mas- 
sive, there  might  be  seen  those  grand 
shadows  with  which  French  artists  love  to 
glorify  the  Emperor.  Yet  in  addition  to 
this  he  had  that  same  serene  immobility 


il 

0 


ill 
t 


CORD    AND   CREESK 


of  countenance  « '*'ich  characterized  the 
other,  which  cci  serve  as  an  impene- 
trable mask  to  hide  even  the  intensest 
passion. 

There  was  also  about  this  man  a  cer- 
tain aristocratic  air  and  grace  of  attitude, 
or  of  manner,  which  seemed  to  show 
lofty  birth  and  gentle  breeding,  the 
mysterious  index  to  good  blood  or  high 
training.  How  such  a  man  could  have 
happened  to  fill  the  position  of  junior 
partner  in  a  commission  business  was 
certainly  a  problem  not  easily  solved. 
There  he  was,  however,  a  man  in  appear- 
ance out  of  place,  yet  in  reality  able  to 
fill  that  place  with  success ;  a  man,  in 
fact,  whose  resolute  will  enabled  him  to 
enforce  success  in  any  calling  of  life  to 
which  either  outside  circumstances  or  his 
own  personal  desires  might  invite  him. 

"  The  mail  ought  to  be  open  by  this 
time,"  said  Brandon  indifferently,  look- 
ing at  his  watch.  "  I  am  somewhat  curi- 
ous to  see  how  things  are  looking.  I 
noticed  quotations  of  wood  rather  higher 
than  by  last  mail.  If  the  papers  are  cor- 
rect which  I  saw  then  we  ought  to  do 
very  well  by  that  last  cargo." 

Mr.  Compton  smiled. 

"  Well,  Brandon,"  said  he,  "if  it  is  so 
it  will  show  that  you  are  right.  You 
anticipated  a  rise  about  this  time,  you 
know.  You  certainly  have  a  remarkable 
forecast  about  the  chances  of  business." 

"  I  don't  think  there  is  much  forecast," 
said  Brandon,  with  a  smile,  "  it  was  only 
the  most  ordinary  calculation  made  from 
the  well-known  fact  that  the  exportation 
this  year  had  been  slight.  But  there 
comes  Hedley  now,"  he  continued,  mov- 
ing his  head  a  little  to  one  side  so  as  to 
look  up  the  street.  "  The  letters  will 
soon  show  us  all." 

Mr.  Compton  looked  out  in  the  direc- 
tion which  Brandon  indicated  and  saw 


the  clerk  approaching.  He  then  settled 
himself  back  in  his  chair,  put  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  threw  one  leg  over  the 
other,  and  began  whistling  a  tune  with 
the  air  of  a  man  who  was  so  entirely 
prosperous  and  contented  that  no  news, 
whether  good  or  evil,  could  greatly  affect 
his  fortunes. 

In  a  short  time  the  clerk  entered  the 
inner  office,  and,  laying  the  letters  down 
upon  the  table  nearest  Mr.  Compton,  he 
withdrew. 

Mr.  Compton  took  up  the  letters  one 
by  one  and  read  the  addresses,  while 
Brandon  looked  carelessly  on.  There 
were  ten  or  twelve  of  them,  all  of  which, 
except  one,  were  addressed  to  the  firm. 
This  one  Mr.  Compton  selected  from 
among  the  others,  and  reaching  it  out  in 
his  hand  said  : 

"  This  is  for  you,  Mr.  Brandon." 

"For  me?"  repeated  Brandon,  with 
marked  surprise ;  and  taking  the  letter 
he  looked  at  the  address  with  eager 
curiosity. 

The  address  was  simply  as  follows : 

The  letters  were  irregular  and  loosely 
formed,  as  though  written  by  a  tremulous 
hand — such  letters  as  old  men  form 
when  the  muscles  have  become  relaxed. 

Mr.  Compton  went  on  opening  the 
letters  of  the  firm  without  taking  any 
further  notice  of  his  partner.  The  latter 
sat  for  some  time  looking  at  the  letter 
without  venturing  to  open  it.  He  held  it 
in  both  hands  and  looked  fixedly  at  that 
address  as  though  from  the  address  itself 
he  was  trying  to  extort  some  meaning. 

He  held  it  thus  in  both  hands  looking 
fixedly  at  it,  with  his  head  bent  forward. 
Had  Mr.  Compton  thought  of  taking  a 


lok  at  hi: 
c  would 
Kinge  V ' 
le  meic 
riting. 
lisfortune 
jcre,  paui 
le  seal,  t 
Iready  be 
Gloom  t 
pon  his 
sives  into 
pcame  m( 
Ben  disto 
pd  over  h 
^Gud,  wh 
rery  insta 
[id  his  fa 
Bsembled 
le  artist  % 

lour  0^  W 
ecoiled  fr( 
lat  Imperi 

ioul  itself 
'  Lost ! " 

Yet  it  V 
lastily  sul 
ose,  and  cl 
IS  though 
rusted  to  ! 
)nice  and  1 
he  Street. 
He  walk( 
large  bu 
'Australiar 
valked  upi 
limself  in. 
ipartments 
The  pap 
jandwritinj 

Iremulous, 

Illegible ;  \ 
vhole  appc 

Indicate  p( 
i^art  of  th( 


THE  LETTER  FROM  BEYOND  THE  SEA 


e  then  settled 
put  his  hands 
!  leg  over  the 
g  a  tune  with 
as  so  entirely 
that  no  news, 
J  greatly  affect 

rk  entered  the 
e  letters  down 
.  Compton,  he 

he  letters  one 
dresses,  while 
y  on.  There 
I,  all  of  which, 
d  to  the  firm, 
selected  from 
ching  it  out  in 

andon." 
Brandon,  with 
ing  the  letter 
s    with  eager 

as  follows : 


ir  and  loosely 

y  a  tremulous 

men  form 

ome  relaxed. 

opening  the 

taking  any 

The  latter 

at  the  letter 

.    He  held  it 

xedly  at  that 

address  itself 

e  meaning. 

ands  looking 

lent  forward. 

.  of  taking  a 


|ok  at  his  usually  impassive  companion, 
would   have   been    surprised   a     the 
i.-^nge  V '  !ch  had  taken  place  in  him  at 
^e  meic  sight  of  that  tremulous  hand- 
writing.   For  in  that  he  had  read  grief, 
»isfortune,  perhaps  death  ;  and  ns  he  sat 
lere,  pausing  before  he  dared  to  break 
ic  seal,  the  contents  of  the  letter  h.^d 
Iready  been  conjectured. 
Gloom  therefore  unutterable  gathered 
3on  his  face;  his  features  fixed  them- 
•Ives  into  such  rigidity  of  grief  that  they 
pcame  more  expressive  than  if  they  had 
sen  distorted  by  passionate  emotions ; 
Hi  over  his  brow  collected  cloud  upon 
|oud,  which    deepened    and    darkened 
i^ery  instant  till  they  overshadowed  all ; 
ul  his  face  in  its  statuesque  fixedness 
jsembled  nothing  so  much  as  that  which 
le  artist  gives  to  Napoleon  at  the  crisis 
lour  0^  Waterloo,  when  the  Guard  has 
Ecoiled  from  its  last  charge,  and  from 
lat  Imperial  face  in  its  fixed  agony  the 
ioul     itself    seems     to     cry,    "Loa!" 
Lost !  " 

Yet  it  was  only  for  a  few  minuces. 

[astily  subduing    his    feeling  Brandon 

[ose,  and  clutching  the  letter  in  his  hand 

ks  though  it  were  too  precious  to  be 

[rusted  to  his  pocket,  he  quietly  left  the 

j)ffice  and  the  warehouse  and  walked  up 

Ihe  street. 

He  walked  on  rapidly  until  he  reached 

large  building  which   bore    the  sign, 

'Australian  Hotel."  Here  he  entered,  and 

iralked  upstairs  to  a  room,  and  locked 

limself  in.    Then,  when  alone  in  his  own 

ipartments,  he  ventured  to  open  the  letter. 

The  paper  was  poor  and  mean  ;  the 

landvvriting,  like  that  of  the  address,  was 

jremulous,  and   in    many    places    quite 

Illegible ;    the  ink    was  pale ;    and  the 

i^hole  appearance  of  the  letter  seemed  to 

Indicate  poverty   and  weakness  on  the 

(.art  of  the  writer,     Py  a  very  natural 


impulse  Brandon  hesitated  before  begin- 
ing  to  read,  and  took  in  all  these  things 
with  a  quick  glance. 

At  last  he  nerved  himself  to  the  task 
and  began  to  read. 

This  was  the  letter : 

"  Brandon,  March  lo,  1846. 

"  My  Dear  Boy  :  These  are  the  last 
words  which  you  will  ever  hear  from  your 
father,  I  am  dying,  my  dear  boy,  and 
dying  of  a  broken  heart ;  but  where  I  am 
dying  I  am  afraid  to  tell  you.  That  bit- 
terness I  leave  for  you  to  tind  out  some 
day  for  yourself.  In  poverty  unspeak- 
able, in  anguish  that  I  pray  you  may 
never  know,  I  turn  to  you  after  a  silence 
of  years,  and  my  first  word  is  to  implore 
your  forgiveness.  I  know,  my  noble  boy, 
that  you  grant  it,  and  it  is  enough  for  me 
to  ask  it.  After  asking  this  I  can  die 
content  on  that  score. 

"  Lying  as  I  do  now  at  the  point  of 
death,  I  find  myself  at  last  freed  from  the 
follies  and  prejudices  which  have  been 
my  ruin.  The  clouds  roll  away  from  my 
mind,  and  I  perceive  what  a  mad  fool  I 
have  been  'or  years.  Mosl  of  all  I  see 
the  madness  that  instigated  me  to  turn 
against  you,  and  to  put  against  the  loyal 
love  of  the  best  of  sons  my  own  misera- 
ble pride  and  the  accusation  of  a  lying 
scoundrel.  May  God  have  mercy  upon 
me  for  this ! 

"  I  have  not  much  strength,  dear  boy ; 
I  have  to  write  at  intervals,  and  by 
stealth,  so  as  not  to  be  discovered,  for  I 
am  closely  watchf^d.  He  must  never 
know  that  I  have  sent  this  to  you.  Frank 
and  your  mother  are  both  sick,  and  my 
only  help  is  your  sister,  my  sweet  Edith. 
She  watches  me,  and  enables  me  to  write 
this  in  safety. 

"  I  must  tell  you  all  without  reserve 
before  strength  leaves  me  forever. 


1 


pi 


CORP    AND   CREKSF. 


*•  Tliat  man  Potts,  whom  you  so  justly 
hated,  Wiis  and  is  tiie  cause  of  all  my 
suffering  and  of  yours.  You  used  to 
wonder  how  such  a  man  ns  that,  a  low, 
vulgar  knave,  could  gain  such  an  influence 
over  me  and  sway  me  as  he  did.  I  will 
try  to  explain. 

"  Perhaps  you  remember  something 
about  the  lamentable  death  of  my  old 
friend  Colonel  Despard.  The  first  that  I 
ever  heard  of  this  man  Potts  was  in  his 
connection  with  Despard,  for  whom  he 
acted  partly  as  valet,  and  partly  as  busi- 
ness agent.  Just  before  Despard  left  to 
go  on  his  fatal  voyage  he  wrote  to  me 
about  his  affairs,  and  stated  in  conclu- 
sion that  this  man  Potts  was  going  to 
England,  that  he  was  sorry  to  lose  him, 
but  recommended  him  very  earnestly  to 
me. 

"You  recollect  that  Colonel  Despard 
was  murdered  on  this  voyage  under  very 
mysterious  circumstances  on  shipboard. 
His  Malay  servant  Uracao  was  convicted 
and  executed.  Potts  distinguished  him- 
self by  his  zeal  in  avenging  his  niastcr's 
death. 

"  About  a  year  after  this  Potts  himself 
came  to  England  and  visited  me.  He 
was,  as  you  know,  a  rough,  vulgar  man  ; 
but  his  connection  with  my  murdered 
friend,  and  the  warm  recommendations 
of  that  friend,  made  me  receive  him  with 
the  greatest  kindness.  Besides,  he  had 
many  things  to  tell  me  about  my  poor 
friend,  and  brought  the  newspapers  both 
from  Manilla  and  Calcutta  which  con- 
tained accounts  of  the  trial. 

"  It  was  this  man's  desire  to  settle  him- 
self somewhere,  and  I  gave  him  letters  to 
different  people.  He  then  went  off,  and 
I  did  not  see  him  for  two  years.  At  the 
end  of  that  time  he  returned  with  glow- 
ing accounts  of  a  tin  mine  which  he  was 
working  in  Cornwall.     He  had  bought  it 


at  n  low  price,  and  the  returns  from  work- 
ing it  had  exceeded  his  most  sanguine 
expectations.  He  had  just  organized  a 
company,  and  was  selling  the  stock.  Ho 
canie  first  to  me  to  let  me  take  what  i 
wished.  I  carelessly  took  five  thousand 
pounds'  worth. 

"  In  the  following  year  the  dividend 
was  enormous,  being  nearly  sixty  per 
cent.  Potts  explained  to  me  the  cause, 
declaring  that  it  was  the  richest  mine  it) 
the  kingdom,  and  assuring  me  that  my 
five  thousand  pounds  was  worth  ten 
times  that  sum.  His  glowing  accounts 
of  the  mine  interested  me  greatly, 
Another  year  the  dividend  was  higher, 
and  he  assured  me  that  he  expected  tu 
pay  cent,  per  cent. 

"  It  was  then  that  the  demon  of  avar- 
ice took  full  possession  of  me.  Visions 
of  millions  came  to  me,  and  I  determined 
to  become  the  richest  man  in  the  king- 
dom. After  this  I  turned  everything  ! 
had  into  money  to  invest  in  the  mine 
I  raised  enormous  sums  on  my  landed 
estate,  and  put  all  that  I  was  worth,  and 
more  too,  into  the  speculation.  I  was 
fascinated,  not  by  this  man,  but  by  the 
wealth  that  he  seemed  to  represent.  I 
believed  in  him  to  the  utmost.  In  vain 
my  friends  warned  me.  I  turned  from 
them,  and  quarrelled  with  most  of  them. 
In  my  madness  I  refused  to  listen  to  tlic 
entreaties  of  my  poor  wife,  and  turned 
even  against  you.  I  cannot  bear  to  al 
lude  to  those  mournful  days  when  you 
denounced  that  villain  to  his  face  before 
me  ;  when  I  ordered  you  to  beg  his  par- 
don or  leave  my  roof  forever  ;  when  you 
chose  the  latter  alternative  and  became 
an  outcast.  My  noble  boy — my  tnic- 
hearted  son — that  last  look  of  yours,  witli 
all  its  reproach,  is  haunting  my  dying 
hours.  If  you  were  only  near  rn?  P<jw 
how  peacefully  I  could  die  t 


f 


My  strc 
icribe  the 
t  the  min 
ief  stockh 
lad  to  sel 
IS  worthle 
went.    1  li 
madness 
IS  came  up 
Hut  mar 
itts  was 
e  grown 
e.    Whei 
the  auth 
Ited  that  h 
scoundre 
The  Hal 
unfortun 
our  family 
iled.    A  fe( 
this  neglec 
|rchaser  wa 
[ve  bought 
had  plund 
'  Now,    sii 
ened, I  ha\ 
ong  all  thi 
minent  thi 
^r  friend.     1 
the  time.    ] 
Malay.    ' 
ire  down  ha 
escape,  a 
!t  this  muc 
•gely  benefii 
s  could  not 
i  own  savin 
10  wronged 
5  of  murder 
in  now  that 
tious  feelin 
inquiry  in 
refore  he 
er  life  and 
e  man  the 


THE    LETTER    UtOM    IIEYONI)    THE    SEA 


lear  rn?  p'jw 


Mv  strength   is    failing.      I    cannot 

icribe  the  details  of  my  ruin.     Enough 

lit  the  mine  broi<e  down  utterly,  and  I  as 

icf  stockholder  was  responsible  for  all. 

lad  to  sell  out  everything.     The  stock 

|s  worthless.    The  Hall  and  the  estates 

[went.    I  had  no  friend  to  help  me,  for  by 

madness  I  had  alienated  them  all.    All 

|s  came  upon  me  during  the  last  year. 

]'  Hut  mark  this,  my  son.     This  man 

Itts  was  tto/  ruined.      He  seemed   to 

/c  grown  possessed  of  a  colossal  for- 

le.    When  I  reproached  him  with  be- 

the  author  of  my  calamity,  and  in- 

(tcd  that  he  ought  to  share  it  with  me, 

scoundrel  laughed  in  my  face. 

The  Hall  and  the  estates  were  sold, 

\,  unfortunately,  though  they  have  been 

[our  family  for  ages,  they  were  not  en- 

lled.    A  feeling  of  honor  was  the  cause 

[this  neglect.    They  were  sold,  and  the 

Irchaser  was  this  man  Potts.    He  must 

Ive  bougljt  them  with  the  money  that 

had  plundered  from  me. 

Now,    since    my    eyes    have    been 

[ened,  I  have  had  many  thoughts  ;  and 

long  all  that  occur  to  me  none  is  more 

jminent  than  the  mysterious  murder  of 

'  friend.    This  man  Potts  was  with  him 

I  the  time.    He  was  chief  witness  against 

Malay.    The  council  for  the  defense 

|re  down  hard  on  him,  but  he  managed 

escape,  and   Uracao    was   executed. 

kt  this  much  is  evident,  that  Potts  was 

fgely  benefited  by  the  death  of  Despard. 

could  not  have  made  all  his  money  by 

own  savings.    I  believe  that  the  man 

10  wronged  me  so  foully  was  fully  capa- 

of  murder.     So  strong  is  this  convic- 

kn  now  that  I  sometimes  have  a  super- 

jtious  feeling  that  because  I  neglected 

inquiry  into  the  death  of  my  friend, 

erefore  he  has  visited   me  from   that 

ler  life  and  punished  me  by  making  the 

me  man  the  ruin  of  us  both. 


"  The  mine,  I  now  believe,  was  a  colos- 
sal sham ;  and  all  the  money  that  I  in- 
vested in  stocks  went  directly  to  Potts. 
Good  God  !  what  madness  was  mine  I 

"  Oh,  my  boy !  Your  mother  and  your 
brother  are  lying  here  sick ;  your  sister 
attends  on  us  all,  though  little  more  than 
a  child.  Soon  I  must  leave  them ;  and 
for  those  who  are  destined  to  live  there  is 
a  future  which  I  shudder  to  contemplate. 
Come  home  at  once.  Come  home,  what- 
ever you  are  doing.  Leave  all  business, 
and  all  prospects,  and  come  and  save 
them.  That  much  you  can  do.  Come, 
if  it  is  only  to  take  them  back  with  you  to 
that  new  land  where  you  live,  where  they 
may  forget  their  anguish. 

"  Come  home,  my  son,  and  take  ven- 
geance. This,  perhaps,  you  cannot  do, 
but  you  at  least  can  try.  By  the  time 
that  you  read  these  words  they  will  be  my 
voice  from  the  grave ;  and  thus  I  invoke 
you,  and  call  you  to  take  vengeance. 

"  But  at  least  come  and  save  your 
mother,  your  brother,  and  your  sister. 
The  danger  is  imminent.  Not  a  friend  is 
left.  They  all  hold  aloof,  indignant  at 
me.  This  miscreant  has  his  own  plans 
with  regard  to  them,  I  doubt  not ;  and  he 
will  disperse  them  or  send  them  off  to 
starve  in  some  foreign  land.  Come  and 
save  them. 

"  But  I  warn  you  to  be  careful  about 
yourself  for  their  sakes.  For  this  villain 
is  powerful  now,  and  hates  you  worse 
than  anybody.  His  arm  may  reach  even 
to  the  antipodes  to  strike  you  there.  Be 
on  your  guard.  Watch  everyone.  For 
once,  from  words  which  fell  from  him 
hastily,  I  gathered  that  he  had  some  dark 
plan  against  you.  Trust  no  one.  Rely 
on  yourself,  and  may  God  help  you  ! 

"  Poor  boy  !  I  have  no  estate  to  leave 
you  now,  and  what  I  do  send  to  you  may 
seem  to  you  like  a  mockery.    Yet  do  not 


J 

0 
0 

I 

t 

i 
< 


IL 

0 


2 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


hi, 

hi 


(lespis  Who  knows  what  may  be 

possible  in  these  clays  of  science  ?  Why 
may  it  not  be  possible  to  force  the  sea  to 
give  up  its  prey  ? 

"  I  send  it,  at  any  rate,  for  I  have  noth- 
ing else  to  send.  You  know  that  it  has 
been  in  our  family  for  centuries,  and  have 
heard  how  stout  old  Peter  Leggit,  with 
nine  sailors,  escaped  by  night  through  the 
Spanish  fleet,  and  what  suffering  they  en- 
dured before  they  reached  England.  He 
brought  this,  and  it  has  been  preserved 
ever  since.  A  legend  has  grown  up,  as 
a  matter  of  course,  that  the  treasure  will 
be  recovered  one  day  when  the  family  is 
at  its  last  extremity.  It  may  not  be  im- 
possible. The  writer  intended  that  some- 
thing should  come  of  it. 

"  If  in  that  other  world  to  -vhich  I  am 
going  the  disembodied  spirit  can  assist 
man,  then  be  sure,  oh,  my  son,  I  will  assist 
you,  and  in  the  crisis  of  your  fate  I  will  be 
near,  if  it  is  only  to  communicate  to  your 
spirit  what  you  ought  to  do. 

"  God  bless  you,  dear  boy,  and  fare- 
well. 

"  Your  affectionate  father, 

"  Ralph  Brandon." 


This  letter  was  evidently  written  I, 
fragmentary  portions,  as  though  it  ha 
been  done  at  intervals.  Some  parts  wei 
written  leisurely — others  apparently  i 
haste.  The  first  half  had  been  writtc 
evidently  with  the  greatest  ease.  T\ 
writing  of  the  last  half  showed  wp^knei 
and  tremulousness  of  hand ;  many  wok 
would  have  been  quite  illegible  to  or 
not  familiar  with  the  handwriting  ot  tl 
old  man.  Sometimes  the  words  wei 
written  two  or  three  times,  and  thei 
were  numerous  blots  and  unmeanir; 
lines.  It  grew  more  and  more  illegibli 
toward  the  close.  Evidently  it  was  thi 
work  of  one  who  was  but  ill  able  to  ei 
ert  even  sufficient  strength  to  hold  a  pe 
in  his  trembling  hand. 

In  this  letter  there  was  folded  a  larj 
piece  of  coarse  paper,  evidently  a  blar 
leaf  torn  from  a  book,  brown  with  ags 
which  was  worn  at  the  folds,  and  pre 
tected  thereby  pieces  of  co.ton  which  liai 
been  pasted  upon  it.  The  paper  wai 
covered  with  writing,  in  ink  that  wa; 
much  faded,  though  still  quite  legible. 

Opening  this  Brandon  read  the  fol- 
lowing : 


Yar' 


tn 


ntly  written 
;  though  it  li.i 
Some  parts  vvei 
i  apparently  i 
id  been  writtc 
test  ease.  Tf 
lowed  Wv^-^knei 
id ;  many  wok 
illegible  to  or 
idwritingot  tl; 
he  words  wet 
mes,  and  the 
and  unmeanir: 
:1  more  illegibi 
;ntly  it  was  th( 
Jt  ill  able  to  ei 
h  to  hold  a  pe 

►  folded  a  larj 

idently  a  blar 

)rown  with  ag! 

folds,  and  pro 

kton  which  lia; 

he  paper  wi 

ink  that  was 

uite  legible. 

read  the  fol' 


\ 


[3 

J 

0 
0 

lii 
< 

11 
0 

t 

(3 
i 

> 

t 

:3 


liii 


I: 


CHAPTER  II 


A  LIFE  TRAGEDY 


Not  a  word  or  a  gesture  escaped 
Brandon  during  the  perusal,  but  after  he 
had  finished  he  read  the  whole  through 
twice,  then  laying  it  down,  he  paced  up 
and  down  the  room.  His  olive  skin  had 
become  of  a  sickly  tawny  hue,  his  eyes 
glowed  with  intense  lustre,  and  his  brow 
was  covered  with  those  gloomy  Napo- 
leonic clouds,  but  not  a  nerve  was 
shaken  by  the  shock  of  this  dread  intel- 
ligence. 

Evening  came  and  night ;  and  the 
night  passed,  and  morning  came,  but  it 
found  him  still  there  pacing  the  room. 

Earlier  than  usual  next  morning  he 
was  at  the  office,  and  waited  for  some 
time  before  the  senior  partner  made  his 
appearance.  When  he  came  in  it  was 
with  a  smile  on  his  face,  and  a  general 
air  of  congratulation  to  all  the  world. 

"Well,  Brandon,"  said  he  cordially, 
••  that  last  shipment  has  turned  out  finely. 
More  than  a  thousand  pounds.  And  it's 
all  your  doing.  I  objected,  but  you  were 
right.    Let  me  congratulate  you." 

Something  in  Brandon's  face  seemed 
to  surprise  the  old  gentleman,  and  he 
paused  for  a  moment.  "  Why,  what's 
the  matter,  my  boy  ? "  he  said,  in  a 
paternal  voice.  "You  have  not  heard 
any  bad  news,  I  hope,  in  that  letter — I 
hope  it's  nothing  serious  ?  " 

Brandon  gave  a  faint  smile. 

"Serious  enough,"  said  he,  looking 
away  with  an  abstracted  gaze,  "  to  put  a 
sudden  end  to  my  Australian  career." 


"Oh,  no— oh,  no!"  said  the  oth 
earnestly ;  "  not  so  bad  as  that." 

"  I  must  go  home  at  once." 

"  Oh,  well,  that  may  be,  but  you  will  i 
back  again.  Take  a  leave  of  absence  k 
five  years  if  you  wish,  but  don't  quit  ft 
good.  I'll  do  (he  business  and  wor 
complain,  my  boy  !  I'll  keep  your  pla 
comfortable  for  you  till  your  return." 

Brandon's  stern  face  softened  as  1 
looked  at  the  old  man,  whose  featui 
were  filled  with  the  kindest  expressio 
and  whose  tone  showed  the  affectiona 
interest  which  he  felt. 

"  Your  kindness  to  me,  Mr.  Compton, 
said  he  very  slowly,  and  with  deep  fee 
ing,  "  has  been  beyond  all  words.    Evf 
since  I  first  came  to  this  country  yc 
have  been  the  truest  and  the  best  t : 
friends.    I    hope   you    know   me    wej 
enough  to  believe  that  I  can  never  forge ; 
it.    But  now  all  this  is  at  an  end,  and  a! 
the  bright  prospects  that  I  had  here  mus| 
give  way  to  the  call  of  the  sternest  duty^ 
In  that  letter  which  I  received  last  nigM 
there  came  a  summons  home  which  l| 
cannot  neglect,  and  my  whole  life  herel 
after  must  be  directed  toward  the  fulfill 
ment  of  that  summons.    From  midda)| 
yesterday   until  dawn  this    morning 
paced  my  room  incessantly,  laying  oiii| 
my  plans  for  the  future  thus  suddenlj 
thrust  upon  me,  and  though  I  have  noi 
been  able  to  decide  upon  anything  ilefi-| 
nite,  yet  I  see  plainly  that  nothing  lesi^ 
than  a  life  will  enable  me  to  accomplisbi 


A   LIFE   TRAGEDY. 


said    the    oth 


luty.  The  first  thing  for  me  to  do 
[acquaint  you  with  this  and  to  give 
)y  part  in  the  business." 

Compton  placed  his  elbow  on  the 
\  near  which  he  had  seated  himself, 
id  his  head  upon  his  hand,  and 
bd  at  the   floor.    From   Brandon's 

he  perceived  that  this  resolution 
irrevocable.  The  deep  dejection 
^h  he  felt  could  not  be  concealed, 
vas  silent  for  a  long  time. 
}od  knows,"  said  he  at  last,  "  that  I 
lid  rather  have  failed  in  business  than 
1  this  should  have  happened." 
randon  looked  away  and  said  noth- 

llt  comes  upon  me  so  suddenly,"  he 
linued.  "  I  do  not  know  what  to 
|k.  And  how  can  I  manage  these 
I  affairs  without  your  assistance  ?  For 
j  were  the  one  who  did  our  business, 
inow  that  well.    I  had  no  head  for 

'You  can  reduce  it  to  smaller  pro- 

tions,"  said    Brandon.    "That    can 

Jly  be  done." 

'he  old  man  sighed. 

After  all,"  he  continued,  "  it  is  not 

business.    It's  losing  you  that  I  think 

dear  boy.    I'm  not  thinking  of  the 

^iness  at  all.    My  grief  is  altogether 

3ut  your  departure.    I  gritfve,  too,  at 

blow  which  must  have  fallen  on  you 

fmake  this  necessary." 
'The   blow   is    a   heavy    one,"  said 
indon ;    "  so    heavy   that  everything 

|e  in  life  must  be  forgotten  except  the 
thought — how  to  recover  from  it ; 

Id  perhaps,  also,"  he  added,  in  a  lower 

lice,  "  how  to  return  it." 

|Mr,  Compton  was  silent  for  a  long 
ie,  and  with  every  minute  the  deep 

Ijectlon  of   his  face    and   manner  in- 
eased.    He  folded  his  arms  and  shut 
eyes  in  deep  thought. 


"  My  boy,"  said  he  at  last,  in  that  same 
paternal  tone  vtrhich  he  had  used  before, 
in  a  mild,  calm  voice,  *'  I  suppose  this 
thing  cannot  be  helped,  and  all  that  is 
left  for  me  to  do  is  to  bear  it  as  best  I 
may.  I  will  not  indulge  in  any  selfish 
sorrow  in  the  presence  of  your  greater 
trouble.  I  will  rather  do  all  in  my  power 
to  coincide  with  your  wishes.  I  see  now 
that  you  must  have  a  good  reason  for 
your  decision,  although  I  do  not  seek  to 
look  into  that  reason." 

"  Believe  me,"  said  Brandon, "  I  would 
show  you  the  letter  at  once,  but  it  is  so 
terrible  that  I  would  rather  that  you 
should  not  know.  It  is  worse  than  death, 
and  I  do  not  even  yet  begin  to  know  the 
worst." 

The  old  man  sighed,  and  looked  at  him 
with  deep  commiseration. 

"If  our  separation  must  indeed  be 
final,"  said  he  at  last,  "  I  will  take  care 
that  you  shall  suffer  no  loss.  You  shall 
have  your  full  share  of  the  capital." 

"  I  leave  that  entirely  to  you,"  said 
Brandon. 

"  Fortunately  our  business  is  not  much 
scattered.  A  settlement  can  easily  be 
made,  and  I  will  arrange  it  so  that  you 
shall  not  have  any  loss.  Our  balance 
sheet  was  made  out  only  last  month,  and 
it  showed  our  firm  to  be  worth  thirty 
thousand  pounds.  Half  of  this  is  yours, 
and " 

"  Half ! "  interrupted  the  other.  "  My 
dear  friend,  you  mean  a  quarter." 

The  old  man  waved  his  hand. 

"  I  said  half,  and  I  mean  half." 

"  I  will  never  consent." 

"  You  must." 

"  Never." 

"  You  shall.  Why,  think  of  the  petty 
business  that  I  was  doing  when  you  came 
here.  I  was  worth  about  four  thousand. 
You  have  built  up  the  business  to  iti 


I 


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CORD    AND   CREESE 


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III!  I 


present  dimensions.  Do  you  suppose 
that  I  don't  know?" 

"  I  cannot  allow  you  to  make  such  a 
sacrifice,"  said  Brandon. 

*'  Stop,"  said  Mr.  Compton.  "  I  have 
not  said  all.  I  attach  a  condition  to  this 
which  I  implore  you  not  to  refuse.  Lis- 
ten to  me,  and  you  will  then  be  able  to 
see." 

Mr.  Compton  rose  and  looked  carefully 
out  into  the  office.  There  was  no  one 
near.  He  then  returned,  locked  the  door, 
and  drawing  his  chair  close  to  Brandon, 
began  in  a  low  voice : 

*'  You  have  your  secrets  and  I  have 
mine.  I  don't  wish  to  know  yours,  but 
my  own  I  am  going  to  tell  to  you,  not 
merely  for  the  sake  of  sympathy,  but 
rather  for  the  sake  of  your  assistance.  I 
am  going  to  tell  you  who  I  am,  and  why 
I  came  out  here. 

"  My  name  is  not  Compton.  It  is 
Henry  Lawton.  All  my  early  life  was 
passed  at  York.  There  I  married,  had  a 
son,  and  lived  happily  for  years — in  fact, 
during  the  childhood  of  my  boy. 

••  It  was  that  boy  of  mine,  Edgar,  that 
led  to  all  my  troubles.  I  suppose  we  in- 
dulged him  too  much.  It  was  natural. 
He  was  our  only  child,  and  so  we  ruined 
him.  He  got  beyond  our  control  at  last, 
and  used  to  run  wild  about  the  streets  of 
York.  I  did  what  I  could  to  save  him, 
but  it  was  too  late. 

"  He  went  on  from  bad  to  worse,  until 
at  last  he  got  in  with  a  set  of  miscreants 
who  were  among  the  worst  in  the  country. 
My  God  !  to  think  how  my  boy,  cnce  a 
sweet  child,  could  have  fallen  so  low. 
But  he  was  weak  and  easily  led,  and  so 
he  went  on  from  bad  to  worse. 

"  I  cannot  bear  to  go  into  particulars," 
said  the  old  man,  after  a  long  pause.  "  I 
will  come  at  once  to  the  point.  My  poor 
wretched  boy  got  in  with  these  miscre- 


ants, as  I  was  telling  you,  and  I  did  i 
see  him  from  one  month's  end  to  anoth 
At  last  a  great  burglary  took  pla( 
Three  were  arrested.  Among  these  wt 
two  old  offenders,  hardened  in  vice,  t 
one  named  Briggs,  the  other  Crocks 
the  third  was  my  unhappy  boy." 

The  old  man  was  silent  for  some  tir 

"  I  do  not  think,  after  all,  that  he  v 
guilty;  but  Briggs  turned  King's  I 
dence,  and  Crocker  and  my  son  w 
condemned  to  transportation.  Tht 
was  no  help. 

"  I  sold  out  all  I  had  in  the  world,  ar 
in  compliance  with  the  entreaties  of  t 
poor  wife,  who  nearly  went  mad  w  | 
grief,  I  came  out  here.  I  changed  r 
name  to  Compton.  My  boy's  term  v; 
for  three  years.  I  began  a  business  c 
here,  and  as  my  boy  behaved  well  he  w 
able  to  get  permission  to  hire  out  as 
servant.  I  took  him  nominally  as  t 
servant,  for  no  one  knew  that  he  was  i 
son,  and  so  we  had  him  with  us  again. 

"  I  hoped  that  the  bitter  lesson  whk 
he  had  learned  would  prove  benefice 
but  I  did  not  know  the  strength  of  eri 
inclinations.    As    long  as  his   term 
imprisonment  lasted  he  was  content  at ; 
behaved  well ;  but  at  last,  when  the  thr 
years  were  up,  he  began  to  grow  restii 
Crocker  was  freed   at  about  the  sar 
time,  and  my  boy  fell  again  under  M 
evil  influences.    This  lasted  for  about 
year,  when,  at  last,  one  morning  a  letl 
was  brought  me  from  him  stating  that  1 
had  gone  to  India. 

*'  My  poor  wife  was  again  nearly  diii 
tracted.  She  thought  of  nothing  but  htj 
boy.  She  made  me  take  her  and  go  is 
search  of  him  again.  So  we  went  trs 
India.  After  a  long  search  I  found  hir| 
there,  as  I  had  feared,  in  connection  vvitlj 
his  old  vicious  associates.  True,  tlie| 
had  changed  their  names,  and  were  tryind 


A    LIFE    TRAGEDY. 


II 


iss  for  honest  men.    Crocker  called 
self  Clark,  and  Briggs  called  himself 

I  Potts !  "  cried  Brandon. 

I  Yes,"  said  the  other,  who  was  too 

jrbed  in  his  own  thoughts  to  notice 

surprise  of  Brandon.    "  He  was  in 

employ  of  Colonel  Despard  at  Cal- 

ta,  and  enjoyed    much  of    his  con- 

tnce." 

'  V/hat  year  was  this  ?  "  asked  Brandon. 
1825,"      replied       Mr.       Compton. 
Crocker,"    he    continued,    "  was    act- 
as  a  sort  of   shipping  agent,  and 
son  was  his  clerk.    Of  course,  my 
St  efforts  were    directed   toward  de- 
aling my  son  from  these  scoundrels, 
iid  all  that  I  could.    I  offered  to  give 
half  of  my  property,  and  finally  all, 
he  would  only  leave  them  forever  and 
Ime  back.    1  be  wretched  boy  refused. 
|e  did  not  appear  to  be  altogether  bad. 
It  he  had  a  weak  nature,  and  could 
)t  get   rid   of   the  influence  of  these 
|en. 

"  I  stayed  in  India  a  year  and  a  half, 

itil  I  found  at  last  there  was  no  hope. 

could  find  nothing  to  do  there,  and 

I  remained  I  would  have  to  starve  or 

to  out   to  service.    This   I  could    not 

link  of  doing.    So  I  prepared  to  come 

lack  here.    But  my  wife  refused  to  leave 

ler  son.    She  was  resolved,  she  said,  to 

Itay  by  him  till  the  last.      I  tried  to 

jlissuade  her,  but  could  not  move  her. 

told  her  that  I  could  not  be  a  domestic. 

>he  said  that  she  could  do  even  that  for 

|ihe  sake  of  her  boy.     And  she  went  off 

nt  once,  and  got  a  situation  as  nurse  with 

khe  same  Colonel  Despard  with  whom 

Jriggs,  or,  as  he  called  himself.  Potts, 

vas  staying." 

"  What  was  the  Christian  name  of  this 

j Potts  ?  "  asked  Brandon  calmly. 

"  John— John  Potts." 


Brandon  said  nothing  further,  and 
Compton  resumed : 

"Thus  my  wife  actually  left  me.  I 
could  not  stay  and  be  a  slave.  So  I 
made  her  promise  to  write  me,  and  told 
her  that  I  would  send  her  as  much 
money  as  I  could.  She  clung  to  me  half 
broken-hearted  as  I  left  her.  Our  part- 
ing was  a  bitter  one — bitter  enough  ;  but 
I  would  rather  break  my  heart  with  grief 
than  be  a  servant.  Besides,  she  knew 
that  whenever  she  came  back  my  heart 
was  open  to  receive  her. 

"  I  came  back  to  my  lonely  life  out 
here  and  lived  for  nearly  tv/o  years.  At 
last,  in  September,  1828,  a  mail  arrived 
from  India  bringing  a  letter  from  my 
wife,  and  Indian  papers.  The  news 
which  they  brought  well-nigh  drove  me 
mad." 

Compton  buried  his  face  in  his  hands 
and  remained  silent  for  some  time. 

"  You  couldn't  have  been  more  than  a 
child  at  that  time,  but  perhaps  you  may 
have  heard  of  the  mysterious  murder  of 
Colonel  Despard  ?  " 

He  looked  inquiringly  at  Brandon,  but 
the  latter  ga\'c  no  sign. 

"  Perhaps  not,"  he  continued—"  no ; 
you  wer«  toe  young,  of  course.  Well,  it 
was  in  the  Vtshnii,  a  brig  in  which  the 
colonel  had  embarked  for  Manilla.  The 
brig  was  laden  with  hogshead  staves  and 
box  shooks,  and  the  colonel  went  there 
partly  for  his  health,  partly  on  business, 
taking  with  him  his  valet  Potts." 

"  What  became  of  his  family  ?  "  inter- 
rupted Brandon. 

"  He  had  a  son  in  England  at  school. 
His  wife  had  died  not  long  before  this  at 
one  of  the  hill  stations,  where  she  had 
gone  for  her  health.  Grief  may  have  had 
something  to  do  with  the  colonel's  voy- 
age, for  he  was  very  much  attached  to 
his  wife. 


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CORD    AND    CREESE 


'liiii! 


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il! 


Ii.ii 


"  Mails  used  only  to  come  at  long  inter- 
vals in  those  days,  and  this  one  brought 
the  account  not  only  of  the  colonel's  fate, 
but  of  the  trial  at  Manilla  and  the  execu- 
tion of  the  man  that  was  condemned. 

"  It  was  a  very  mysterious  case.  In 
the  month  of  July  a  boat  arrived  at 
Manilla  which  carried  the  crew  and  one 
passenger  from  the  brig  Vishnu.  One 
of  the  men,  a  Malay  named  Uracao,  was 
in  irons,  and  he  was  immediately  given  up 
to  the  authorities." 

"  Who  were  the  others  ?  " 

"  Potts,  as  he  called  himself,  the 
colonel's  valet,  Clark,  three  Lascars,  and 
the  captain,  an  Italian  named  Cigole. 
Information  was  at  once  laid  against  the 
Malay.  Potts  was  the  chief  witness. 
He  said  that  he  slept  in  the  cabin  while 
the  colonel  slept  in  an  inner  state-room  ; 
that  one  morning  early  he  was  roused  by 
a  frightful  shriek  and  saw  Uracao  rush- 
ing from  the  colonel's  state-room.  He 
sprang  up,  chased  him,  and  caught  him 
just  as  he  was  about  to  leap  overboard. 
His  creese,  covered  with  blood,  was  in  his 
hand.  The  colonel,  when  they  went  to 
look  at  hi'n,  had  his  throat  cut  from  ear 
to  ear.  Clark  swore  that  he  was  steering 
the  vessel  and  saw  Potts  catch  Uracao, 
and  helped  to  hold  him.  The  captain 
Cigole  swore  that  he  was  waked  by  the 
noise,  and  rushed  out  in  time  to  see  this. 
Clark  had  gone  as  mate  of  the  vessel.  Of 
the  Lascars,  two  had  been  down  below, 
but  one  was  on  deck  and  swore  to  have 
seen  the  same.  On  this  testimony 
Uracao  was  condemned  and  executed." 

"  How  did  they  happen  to  leave  the 
brig?" 

"  They  said  that  a  great  storm  came 
up  about  three  days'  sail  from  Manilla, 
the  vessel  sprang  a  leak,  and  they  had  to 
take  to  the  boat.  Their  testimony  was 
very  clear  indeed,  and  there  were  no  con- 


tradictions ;  but  in  spite  of  all  this  it  w 
felt  to  be  a  very  mysterious  case,  ati 
even  the  exhibition  of  the  Malay  crees 
carefully  covered  with  the  stains 
blood,  did  not  altogether  dispel  this  fe( 
ing." 

"  Have  you  got  the  papers  yet,  or  a 
there  any  in  Sydney  that  contain  an  « 
count  of  this  affair  ?  " 

"  I  have  kept  them  all.  You  may  re; 
the  whole  case  if  you  care  about  it." 

"  I  should  like  to  very  much,"  sa: 
Brandon,  with  great  calmness. 

"  When  I  heard  of  this  before  iV 
mail  was  opened  I  felt  an  agony  of  fe; 
lest  my  miserable  boy  might  be  implicate 
in  some  way.  To  my  immense  relief  In 
name  did  not  occur  at  all." 

"  You  got  a  leUer  from  your  wife  ? 
said  Brandon  interrogatively. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  sigh 
"  The  last  that  I  ever  received  from  her 
Here  it  is."  And,  saying  this,  he  opened 
his  pocket-book  and  took  out  a  letter 
worn  and  faded,  and  blackened  by  fre 
quent  readings. 

Brandon  took  it  respectfully,  and  reac 
the  following : 

"Calcutta,  August  15,  1828. 
"My  Dearest  Henry:  By  the  papers 
that  I  send  you,  you  will  see  what  has 
occurred.  Our  dear  Edgar  is  well, 
indeed  better  than  usual,  and  I  woiikl 
feel  much  cheered  if  it  were  not  for  the 
sad  fate  of  the  poor  colonel.  This  is  the 
last  letter  that  you  will  ever  receive  from 
me.  I  am  going  to  leave  this  country 
never  to  return,  and  do  not  yet  know 
where  I  will  go.  Wherever  I  go  I  will 
be  with  my  darling  Edgar.  Do  not. 
worry  about  me  or  about  him.  It  will  be 
better  for  you  to  try  and  forget  all  about 
us,  since  we  are  from  this  time  the  same 
as  dead    to  you.    Qood-by  forever,  my 


A   LIFE   TRAGEDY. 


«3 


Irest  husband ;  It  shall  be  my  daily 
Iyer  that  God  may  bless  you. 

"  Your  affectionate  wife, 

"  Mary." 

Jrandon    read    this    in    silence,  and 
jided  it  back. 

I A    strange    letter,"    said    Compton 

Jurnfully.    "At  first  it  gave  a  bitter 

fig  to  think  of  my  Mary  thus  giving 

up  forever,   so  coldly,   and   for  no 

Lson  :  but  afterward  I  began  to  under- 

^nd  why  she  wrote  this. 

My  belief  is  that  these  villains  kept 

son  in  their  clutches  for  some  good 

ison,  and  that  they  had  some  equally 

Ld  reason  for  keeping  her.    There's 

Inie  mystery  about   it    which   I  can't 

Ithom.    Perhaps  she  knew  too  much 

l)out  the  colonel's  affairs  to  be  allowed 

go  free.    They  might  have  detained 

er  by  working  upon  her  love  for  her  son, 

simply  by  terrifying  her.    She  was 

^ways  a  timid  soul,  poor  Mary !    That 

^tter  is  not  her  composition  ;  there  is  not 

word  there  that  sounds  like  her,  and 

hey  no  doubt  told  her  what  to  write, 

\r  wrote  out  something,  and  made  her 

|opy  it. 

'  And    now,"    said    Compton,    after 

Inother  long  pause,  "  I  have  got  to  the 

bnd  of  my  story.     I  know  nothing  more 

about    them.     I   have    lived    here  ever 

Bince,  at    first    despairing,  but  of   late 

lore  resigned  to  my  lot.    Yet  still  if  I 

have  one  desire  in  life,  it  is  to  get  some 

Itrace  of  these  dear  ones  whom   I  still 

hove  as  tenderly  as  ever.    You,  my  dear 

Jl)oy,  with  your  ability,  may  conjecture 

jsome  way.    Besides,  you  will  perhaps  be 

Itravelling  more  or  less,  and  may  be  able 

Ito  hear  of  their  fate.    This  is  the  con- 

Idition  that  I  make:   I  implore  you  by 

I  your  pity  for  a  heart-broken  father  to 

do  as  I  say  and  help  me.    Half !  why,  I 


would  give  all  that  I  have  if  I  could  get 
them  back  again." 

Brandon  shuddered  perceptibly  at  the 
words  "  heart-broken  father  " ;  but  he 
quickly  recovered  himself.  He  took 
Compton's  hand  and  pressed  it  warmly. 

"  Dear  friend,  I  will  make  no  objection 
to  anything,  and  I  promise  you  that  all 
my  best  efforts  shall  be  directed  toward 
finding  them  out." 

"  Tell  them  to  come  to  me,  that  I  am 
rich,  and  ran  make  them  happy." 

"  I'll  make  them  go  to  you  if  they  are 
alive,"  said  Brandon. 

"  God  bless  you  ! "  ejaculated  the  old 
man  fervently. 

Brandon  spent  the  greater  part  of  that 
day  in  making  business  arrangements, 
and  in  reading  the  papers  which  Comp- 
ton had  preserved  containing  an  account 
of  the  Despard  murder. 

It  was  late  at  night  before  he  returned 
to  his  hotel.  As  he  went  into  the  hall  he 
saw  a  stranger  sitting  there  in  a  lounging 
attitude  reading  the  Sydney  News. 

He  was  a  thin,  small-sized  man,  with  a 
foreign  air,  and  quick,  restless  manner. 
His  features  were  small,  a  heavy  beard 
and  mustache  covered  his  face,  his  brow 
was  low,  and  his  eyes  black  and  twin- 
kling. A  sharp,  furtive  glance  which  he 
gave  at  Brandon  attracted  the  attention 
of  the  latter,  for  there  was  something  in 
the  glance  that  meant  more  than  idle 
curiosity. 

Even  in  the  midst  of  his  cares  Bran- 
don's curiosity  was  excited.  He  walked 
with  assumed  indifference  up  to  the  desk 
as  though  looking  for  the  key  of  his  room. 
Glancing  at  the  hotel  Dook  his  eye 
ranged  down  the  column  of  names  till  it 
rested  on  the  last  one  : 

"  Ptefro  CigoUr 

Cigole !  the  name  brought  singular 
associations.     Had    this    man   still  any 


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CORD   AND  CREESE 


connection  with  Potts?  The  words  of 
his  father's  letter  rushed  into  his  mind— 
"  His  arm  may  reach  even  to  the  antip- 
odes to  strilce  you.     Be  on  your  guard. 


Watch  everyone.    He   has   some  dar 
plan  against  you  ! " 

With    these    thoughts    in    his    min 
Brandon  went  up  to  his  room. 


CHAPTER  HI 
A  MAN  OVERBOARD  ! 


m 


In  so  small  a  town  as  Sydney  then 
was  Brandon  could  hope  to  learn  all 
that  could  be  learned  about  Cigole.  By 
casual  inquires  he  learned  that  the  Italian 
had  come  out  in  the  Rival,  and  had  given 
out  that  he  was  agent  for  a  London 
house  in  the  wool  business.  He  had 
bought  up  a  considerable  quantit; ,  which 
he  was  preparing  to  ship. 

Brandon  could  not  help  feeling  that 
there  was  some  ruse  about  this.  Yet  he 
thought,  on  the  other  hand,  why  should 
he  flaunt  his  name  so  boldly  before  the 
world  ?  If  he  is  in  reality  following  me 
why  should  he  not  drop  his  name  ?  But 
then,  again,  why  should  he?  Perhaps 
he  thinks  that  I  cannot  possibly  know  any- 
thing about  his  name.  Why  should  I  ? 
I  was  a  child  when  Despard  was  mur- 
dered. It  may  be  merely  a  similarity  of 
names. 

Brandon  from  time  to  time  had  oppor- 
tunities of  hearing  more  about  Cigole, 
yet  always  the  man  seemed  absorbed  in 
business. 

He  wondered  to  himself  whether  he 
had  better  confide  his  suspicions  to  Mr. 
Compton  or  not.  Yet  why  should  he  ? 
The  old  man  would  become  excited,  and 
feel  all  sorts  of  wild  hopes  about  dis- 
covering his  wife  and  son.  Could  it  be 
possible  that  the  Italian  after  so  many 


years  could  now  afford  any  clue  what 
ever  ?  Certainly  it  was  not  very  prol 
able. 

On  the  whole  Brandon  thought  the 
this  man,  whoever  he  was  or  whateve 
his  purpose  might  be,  would  be  en 
countered  best  by  himself  singly.  If  Mr 
Compton  took  part  he  would  at  ona 
awaken  Cigole's  fears  by  his  clumsiness. 

Brandon  felt  quite  certain  that  Mr, 
Compton  would  not  know  anything 
about  Cigole's  presence  in  Sydney  un- 
less he  himself  told  him.  For  the  old 
man  was  so  filled  with  trouble  at  the  luss 
of  his  partner  that  he  could  think  ot 
nothing  else,  and  all  his  thoughts  wen 
taken  up  with  closing  up  the  concern  sc 
as  to  send  forward  remittances  of  money 
to  London  as  soon  as  possible.  Mr 
Compton  had  arranged  for  him  to  draw 
_;^2C>oo  on  his  arrival  at  London,  and 
three  months  afterward  {^yxxt — £^\Qfxx. 
would  be  remitted  during  the  following 
year, 

Brandon  had  come  to  the  conclusior 
to  tell  Mr.  Compton  about  Cigole  before 
he  left,  so  that  if  the  man  remained  ii 
the  country  he  might  be  bribed  or  other- 
wise induced  to  tell  what  he  knew ;  yei 
thinking  it  possible  that  Cigole  had  de- 
signed to  return  in  the  same  ship  with , 
him,  he  waited  to  see  how  things  would  i 


A   MAN   OVERBOARD  ! 


IS 


las   some  dnr 


out.    As  he  could  not  help  associat- 

Cigole  in  his  mind  with  Potts,  so  he 

ght  that  whichever  way  he  turned 

man  would  try  to  follow  him.    His 

icipations  proved  correct.      He   had 

n  passage  in  the  ship  Java,  and 

days    before    the    vessel    left    he 

ed  that  Cigole  had  taken  his  pas- 

[e  in  her  also,  having  put  on  board  a 

siderable  quantity  of  wool.    On   the 

le  Brandon  felt  gratified  to  hear  this, 

the  close  association  of  a  long  sea 

age  would  give  him  opportunities  to 

this  man,  and  probe  him    to  the 

torn.    The  thought  of  danger  arising 

imself  did  not  enter  his  mind.     He 

ieved  that  Cigole  meant  mischief,  but 

too  much  confidence  in  his    own 

ers  to  fear  it. 

n  the  5th  of  August  the  ship  Java 
s  ready,  and  Mr.  Compton  stood  on 
quarter-deck    to    bid    good-by    to 
andon. 

'  God  bless  you,  dear  boy !    You  will 

d  the  money  coming  promptly,  and 

ithers  &  Co.'s  house  is  one  of  the 

ongest  in  London.    I    have  brought 

u  a  parting  gift,"  said  he,  in  a  low 

ice.    He    drew    from    his    pocket    a 

Istol,  which  in  those    days    was   less 

own  than  now — indeed,  this  was  the 

st  of  its  kind  which  had  reached  Aus- 

[alia,  and  Mr.  Compton  had  paid  a  fabu- 

us  price  for  it.    "  Here,"  said  he,  "  take 

is  to  remember  me  by.    They  call  it  a 

ivolver.    Here  is  a  box  of  patent  car- 

idges  that  go  with  it.     It  is  from  me 

you.    And  mind,"  he  continued,  while 

ere  came  over  his  face  a  vengeful  look 

hich  Brandon  had  never  seen  there  be- 

Dre—  "  mind,  if  ever  you  see  John  Potts, 

ive  him  one  of  those  patent  cartridges, 

id  tell  him  it  is  the  last  gift  of  a  broken- 

learted  father." 

Brandon's  face  turned  ghastly,  and  his 


lips  seemed  to  freeze   into  a  smile  of 
deadly  meaning. 

"  God  bless  you  ! "  cried  Compton,  "  I 
see  by  your  face  that  you  will  do  it. 
Good-by." 

He  wrung  Brandon's  hand  hard  and 
left  the  ship. 

About  six  feet  away  stood  Cigole, 
looking  over  the  stern  and  smoking  a 
cigar.  He  was  near  enough  to  hear 
what  had  been  said,  but  he  did  not  appear 
to  have  heard  it.  Throwing  his  cigar 
intc  the  water,  he  plunged  his  hands 
into  his  pockets,  and  began  whistling  a 
lively  air. 

"  Aha,  capitano,"  said  he  in  a  foreign 
accent,  "  I  have  brought  my  wool  off  at 
last." 

Brandon  paced  the  deck  silently  yet 
watchfully. 

The  good  ship  Java  went  out  with  a 
fine  breeze,  which  continued  for  some 
days,  until  at  last  nothing  could  be  seen 
but  the  wide  ocean.  In  those  few  days 
Brandon  had  settled  himself  comfortably 
on  board,  and  had  learned  pretty  well 
the  kind  of  life  which  he  would  have  to 
lead  for  the  next  six  months  or  so.  The 
captain  was  a  quiet,  amiable  sort  of  a 
person,  without  much  force  of  character ; 
the  mate  was  more  energetic  and  some- 
what passionate;  the  cr-^w  consisted  of 
the  average  order  of  men.  There  was 
no  chance,  certainly,  for  one  of  those 
conspiracies  such  as  Mr.  Compton  had 
hinted  at  as  having  taken  place  on  the 
Vishnu;  for  in  his  account  of  that 
affair  he  evidently  believed  that  Uracao 
had  been  made  a  scape-goat  for  the  sins 
of  the  others. 

Brandon  was  soon  on  the  best  of 
terms  with  the  officers  of  the  ship.  As 
to  Cigole  it  was  different.  The  fact  of 
their  being  the  only  passengers  on  board 
might  of    itself  have  been   a  sufficient 


> 


J 

0 
0 

I 

h 

< 


LL 
0 

>• 

f- 

S 

> 

z 


id 


CORD   AND  CREESE 


cause  to  draw  them  together ;  but  Bran- 
don found  it  difficult  to  pass  beyond  the 
extremest  limits  of  formal  intercourse. 
Brandon  himself  considered  that  his 
purposes  would  be  best  served  by  close 
association  with  this  man  ;  he  hoped  that 
in  the  course  of  such  association  he  might 
draw  something  from  Cigole.  But  Cigole 
bafBed  him  constantly.  He  was  as 
polite  and  courteous  as  all  Italians  are ; 
he  had  an  abundance  of  remarks  all 
ready  about  the  state  of  the  weather,  the 
prospects  of  the  .'oyage,  or  the  health  of 
the  seamen ;  but  beyond  these  topics  it 
was  difficult  to  induce  him  to  go.  Bran- 
don stifled  the  resentment  which  he  felt 
toward  this  man,  in  his  efforts  to  break 
down  the  barriers  of  formality  which  he 
kept  up,  and  sought  to  draw  him  out  on 
the  subject  of  the  wool  trade.  Yet  here 
he  vVas  baffied.  Cigole  always  took  up 
the  air  of  a  man  who  was  speaking  to  a 
rival  in  business,  and  pretended  to  be 
very  cautious  and  guarded  in  his  remarks 
about  wool,  as  though  he  feared  that 
Brandon  would  interfere  with  his  pros- 
pects. This  sort  of  thing  was  kept  up 
with  such  great  delicacy  of  management 
on  Cigole's  part  that  Brandon  himself 
would  have  been  completely  deceived, 
and  would  have  come  to  consider  him 
as  nothing  more  than  a  speculator  in 
wool,  had  it  not  been  for  a  certain  deep 
instinct  within,  which  made  him  regard 
this  man  as  one  who  was  actuated  by 
something  far  deeper  than  mere  regards 
for  a  successful  speculation. 

Cigole  managed  to  baffle  the  most 
dextrous  efforts  and  the  most  delicate 
contrivances  of  L:andon.  He  would 
acknowledge  that  he  was  an  Italian,  and 
had  been  in  all  parts  of  Italy,  but  care- 
fully refrained  from  telling  where  he 
was  born.  He  asserted  that  this  was  the 
first  time  that  he  had  been  in  the  Eastern 


seas.  He  remarked  once,  casually,  th; 
Cigole  was  a  very  common  name  amoni 
Italians.  He  said  that  he  had  no  a( 
quaintances  at  all  In  England,  and  W{ 
only  going  there  now  because  he  heaii 
that  there  was  a  good  market  for  woo 
At  another  time  he  spoke  as  thoug 
much  of  his  life  had  been  passed  i 
Marseilles,  and  hinted  that  he  was 
partner  of  a  commercial  house  there. 

Cigole  never  made  any  advances,  an: 
never  even  met  half-way  those  whici 
Brandon  made.    He  was  never  off  hi; 
guard  for  one  instant.    Polite,  smiling, ; 
furtive,  never  looking  Brandon  fairly  iti 
the  face,  he  usually  spoke  with  a  profu-  i 
ston  of  b^ws,  gestures,  and  common|^ 
places,  adopting,  in  fact,  that  part  whic^ 
is  always  at  once  both  the  easiest  and  tH 
safest  to  play — the  non-committal,  purej 
and  perfect. 

It  was  cunning,  but  low  cunning  aftel 
all,  and  Brandon  perceived  that,  for  on^ 
who  had  some  purpose  to  accomplisli 
with  but  a  common  soul  to  sustain  hiiTiJ 
this  was  the  most  ordinary  way  to  do  it.| 
A  villain  of  profounder  cunning  or  of 
larger  spirit  would  have  pursued  a  differ-^ 
ent    path.    He  would    have    converset 
freely  and  with  apparent  unreserve;  he 
would  have  yielded  to  all  frietidly  ad^ 
vances,  and  made  them  himself ;  he  wouU^ 
have  shown  the  highest  art  by  concealing 
art,  in  accordance  with  the  hackneyec 
proverb,  "  Ars  est  celare  artem." 

Brandon  despised  him  as  an  ordinary! 
villain,  and  hardly  thought  it  worth  his 
while  to  take  any  particular  notice  of  him,! 
except  to  watch  him  in  a  general  way.| 
But  Cigole,  on  the  contrary,  was  very  dif-j 
ferent.    His  eyes,  which  never  met  those| 
of  Brandon  fairly,  were  constantly  watch- 
ing him.    When  moving  about  the  quar-l 
ter-deck,  or  when  sitting  in  the  cabin,  he| 
usually  had  the  air  of  a  man  who  was  pre- 


A    MAN    OVERBOARD  ! 


'7 


Kiing  to  be  intent  on  something  else, 
It  in  reality  watching  Brandon's  acts  or 
lening  to  his  words.    To  any  other  man 
knowledge  of  this  would  have  been 
I  the  highest  degree  irksome.    But  to 
Jandon  it  was  gratifying,  since  it  con- 
ned his  suspicions.    He  saw  this  man, 
lose  constant  efforts  were  directed  to- 
brd  not  committing  himself  by  word, 
ling  that  very  thing  by  his  attitude,  his 
[sture,  and  the  furtive  glance  of  his  eye. 
kindon,  too,  had  his  part,  but  it  was  in- 
litely  greater  than  that  of  Cigole,  and  the 
irpose  that  now  animated  his  life  was 
lintelligible  to  this  man  who  watched 
im.    But  Cigole's  whole  soul  was  ap- 
irent  to  Brandon  ;  and  by  his  small  arts, 
Is  low  cunning,  his  sly  observation,  and 
lany  other  peculiarities,  he  exhibited  that 
Ihich  is  seen  in  its  perfection  in  the  or- 
linary  spy  of  despotic  countries,  such  as 
|scd  to  abound  most  in  Rome  and  Naples 
the  good  old  days. 

For  the  common  spy  of  Europe  may 
leceive  the  English  or  American  traveller; 
lut  the  Frenchman,  the  German,  the 
Spaniard,  or  the  Italian,  always  recog- 
lizes  him. 

So  Brandon's  superior  penetration  dis- 
jovered  the  true  character  of  Cigole. 

He  believed    that  this  man  was  the 

lame  Cigole  who  had  figured  in  the  affair 

k  the  Vtshmt :  that  he  had  been  sent  out 

by  Potts  to  do  some  injury  to  himself, 

^nd  that  he  was  capable  of  any  crime. 

^et  he  could  not  see  how  he  could  do 

jinything.    He  certainly  could  not  incite 

[he  simple-minded  captain  and  the  honest 

mate  to  conspiracy.     He  was  too  great 

coward  to  attempt  any  violence.      So 

3randon  concluded  that  he  had  simply 

come  to  watch  him,  so  as  to  learn  his 

character  and  carry  back  to  Potts  all  the 

iiiowledge  that  he  might  gain. 

This  was  his  conclusion  after  a  close 


association  of  one  month  with  Cigole. 
Yet  he  made  up  his  mind  not  to  lose 
sight  of  this  man.  To  him  he  appeared 
only  an  agent  in  villamy,  and  therefore 
unworthy  of  vengeance ;  yet  he  might  be 
made  use  of  as  an  aid  in  that  vengeance. 
He  therefore  wished  to  have  a  clue  by 
which  he  might  afterward  find  him. 

"  You  and  I,"  said  he  one  day,  in  con- 
versation, "  are  both  in  the  same  trade. 
If  I  ever  get  to  England  I  may  wish 
sometime  to  see  you.  Where  can  I  find 
you  ?  " 

Cigole  looked  in  twenty  different 
directions,  and  hesitated  for  some  time. 

"Well,"  said  he  at  last,  "I  do  not 
think  that  you  will  wish  to  see  me  " — 
and  he  hesitated ;  "  but,"  he  resumed, 
with  an  evil  smile,  "  if  you  should  by  any 
possibility  wish  to  do  so,  you  can  find 
out  where  I  am  by  enquiring  of  Giovanni 
Cavallo,  i6  Red  Lion  Street,  London." 

"Perhaps  I  may  not  wish  to,"  said 
Brandon  coolly,  "  and  perhaps  I  may. 
At  any  rate,  if  I  do,  i  will  remember  to 
enquire  of  Giovanni  Cavallo,  i6  Red  Lion 
Street,  London." 

He  spoke  with  deep  emphasis  on  the 
address.  Cigole  looked  uncomfortable, 
as  though  he  had  at  last  made  the  mis- 
take which  he  dreaded,  ^nd  had  com- 
mitted himself. 

So  the  time  passed. 

After  the  first  few  days  the  weather  had 
become  quite  stormy.  Strong  head- 
winds, accompanied  often  by  very  heavy 
rains,  had  to  be  encountered.  In  spite 
of  this  the  ship  had  a  very  good  passage 
northward,  and  met  with  no  particular 
obstacle  until  her  course  was  turned  to- 
ward the  Indian  Ocean.  Then  all  the 
winds  were  dead  against  her,  and  for 
weeks  a  succession  of  long  tacks  far  to 
the  north  and  to  the  south  brought  her 
but  a  short  distance  onward.    Every  day 


00 

3 

0 

i 

0 

>- 

t 

liJ 
> 

o 


i8 


CORD    AND    CRi-lESR 


made  the  wind  more  violent  and  the 
storm  worse.  And  now  the  season  of  the 
equinox  was  approaching,  when  the  mon- 
soons change,  and  all  the  winds  that 
sweep  over  these  seas  alter  their  courses. 
For  weeks  before  and  after  this  season 
the  winds  are  all  unsettled,  and  it  seems 
as  if  the  elements  were  let  loose.  From 
the  first  week  in  September  this  became 
manifest,  and  every  day  brought  them 
face  to  face  with  sterner  difficulties. 
Twice  before  the  captain  had  been  to 
Australia,  and  for  years  he  had  been  in 
the  China  trade,  so  that  he  knew  these 
seas  well ;  but  he  said  that  he  had  never 
known  the  equinoctial  storms  begin  so 
early  and  rage  with  such  violence. 

Opposed  by  such  difficulties  as  these 
the  ship  made  but  a  slow  passage — the 
best  routes  had  not  yet  been  discovered — 
and  it  was  the  middle  of  September  before 
they  entered  the  Indian  Ocean.  The 
weather  then  became  suddenly  calm,  and 
they  drifted  along  beyond  the  latitude  of 
the  western  extremity  of  Java,  about  a 
hundred  miles  south  of  the  Straits  of 
Sunda.  Here  they  began  to  encounter 
the  China  fleet  which  steers  through  this 
strait,  for  every  day  one  or  more  sails 
were  visible. 

Here  they  were  borne  on  helplessly  by 
the  ocean  currents,  which  at  this  place 
are  numerous  and  distracted.  The 
streams  that  flow  through  the  many  isles 
of  the  Indian  Archipelago,  uniting  with 
the  greater  southern  streams,  here  meet 
and  blend,  causing  great  difficulties  to 
navigation,  and  often  baffling  even  the 
most  experienced  seaman.  Yet  it  was 
not  all  left  to  the  currents,  for  frequently 
and  suddenly  the  storms  came  up ;  and 
the  weather,  ever  changeful,  kept  the 
sailors  constantly  on  the  alert. 

Yet  between  the  storms  the  calms 
were  frequent,  and  sometimes  long  con- 


tinued, though  of  such  a  sort  as  require 
watchfulness.  For  out  of  the  midst 
dead  calms  the  storm  would  sudden 
rise  in  its  might,  and  all  the  care  whi( 
experience  could  suggest  was  not  alwa; 
able  to  avert  disaster. 

"  I  don't  like  this  weather,  Mr.  Brai 
don.  it's  the  worst  that  we  could  hav 
especially  just  here." 

••Why just  here?" 

'•  Why,  we're  opposite  the  Straits  ( 
Sunda,  the  worst  place  about  these  parts, 

••  What  for  ?  " 

•'  Pirates.  The  Malays,  you  knov 
We're  not  over  well  prepared  to  met 
them,  I'm  afraid.  If  they  come  we" 
have  to  fight  them  the  best  way  we  can 
and  these  calms  are  the  worst  thing  fo 
us,  because  the  Malay  proas  can  gi 
along  in  the  lightest  wind,  or  with  oan 
when  we  can't  move  at  all." 

'•  Are  the  Malays  any  worse  thai 
usual  now  ?  "  asked  Brandon. 

"  Well,  no  worse  than  they'v»:  been  fo: 
the  last  ten  years.  Zangorri  is  the  worsi 
of  them  all." 

"  Zangorri !    I've  heard  of  him." 

"  I  should  think  you  had.  Why,  then 
never  was  a  pirate  in  these  seas  that  dli 
so  much  damage.  No  mortal  knowi 
the  ships  that  devil  has  captured  anc 
burned." 

'•  I  hope  you  have  arms  for  the  seamen 
at  any  rate." 

"  Oh,  we  have  one  howitzer,  and  small- 
arms  for  the  men,  and  we  will  have  tc 
get  along  the  best  way  we  can  with  these 
but  the  owners  ought  never  to  send  us 
here  without  a  better  equipment." 

••  I  suppose  they  think  it  would  cost  toe 
much." 

'•  Yes ;  that's  it.  They  think  only  about ; 
the  profits,  and  trust  to  luck  for  our| 
safety.  Well,  I  only  hope  we'll  get  safely| 
out  of  this  place— that's  all." 


A    MAN   OVERBOARD  ! 


t 


19 


)r  the  seamen 


Lnd  the  captain  walked  off  much  more 

iiicd  than  usual. 

:hey  drifted  on  through  days  of  calm 

kch  were  succeeded  by  fierce  but  short- 
)(!  storms,  and  then  followed  by  calms. 
leir  course  lay  sometimes  north,  some- 
^es  south,  sometimes  nowhere.  Thus 
time  passed,  until  at  length,  about  the 

Idle  of  September,  they  came  in  sight 
long,  low  island  of  sand. 
I've  heard  of  that  sand-bank  before," 
the  captain,  who  showed  some  sur- 

se  at  seeing  it ;  "  but  I  didn't  believe  it 
here.  It's  not  down  in  the  charts. 
\re  we  are  three  hundred  and  fifty  miles 

jthwest  of  the  Straits  of  Sutida,  and  the 

irt  makes  this  place  all  open  water. 
[ell,  seein's  believin' ;  and  after  this  I'll 
[ear  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  Coffin 
land." 

'  Is  that  the  name  ?  " 

That's  the  name  an  old  sea  captain 

Ive  it,  and  tried  to  get  the  Admiralty  to 

|t  it  on  the  charts,  but  they  wouldn't. 

It  this  is  it,  and  no  mistake." 

Why  did  he  call  it  Coffin  Island  ?  " 

Well,  he  thought  that  rock  looked 

^e  a  coffin,  and  it's  dangerous  enough, 

len  a  fog  comes,  to  deserve  that  name." 

I  Brandon  looked  earnestly  at  the  island 

lich  the  captain  mentioned,  and  which 

ley  were  slowly  approaching. 

lit  lay  toward    the  north,  y/h'ile   the 

^ip's  course,  if  it  had  any  in  that  calm, 

IS  southwest.    It  was  not  more  than  six 

jiles  away,  and  appeared  to  be  about 

ire  miles  long.    At  the  nearest  extremity 

I  black  rock  rose  to  a  height  of  about 

fty  feet,  which  appeared  to  be  about 

ve  hundred  feet  long,  and  was  of  such  a 

bpe  that  the  imagination  might  easily 

pe  a  resemblance  to  a  coffin.    At  the 

lirthest  extremity  of  the  island  was  a  low 

liound.    The  rest  of  the  island  was  flat, 

l)w,  and  sandy,  with  no  trace  of  vegeta- 


tion perceptible  from  the  ship,  except  a 
line  of  dingy  green  under  the  rock,  which 
looked  like  grass. 

The  ship  drifted  slowly  on. 

Meanwhile  the  captain,  in  anticipation 
of  a  storm,  had  caused  all  the  sails  to  be 
taken  in,  and  stood  anxiously  watching 
the  sky  toward  the  southwest. 

There  a  dense  mass  of  clouds  lay  piled 
along  the  horizon,  gloomy,  lowering, 
menacing ;  frowning  over  the  calm  seas 
as  though  they  would  soon  destroy  that 
calm,  and  fling  forth  all  the  fury  of  the 
winds.  These  clouds  seemed  to  have 
started  up  from  the  sea,  so  sudden  had 
been  their  appearance ;  and  now,  as  they 
gathered  themselves  together,  their  forms 
distended  and  heightened,  and  reached 
forward  vast  arms  into  the  sky,  striving 
to  climb  there,  roll.ng  upward  volumi- 
nous cloud  masses  which  swiftly  ascended 
toward  the  zenith.  So  quick  was  the 
progress  of  these  clouds  that  they  did  not 
seem  to  come  from  the  banks  below ;  but 
it  was  rather  as  though  all  the  air  sud- 
denly condensed  its  moisture  and  made 
it  visible  in  these  dark  masses. 

As  yet  there  was  no  wind,  and  the 
water  was  as  smooth  as  glass ;  but  over 
the  wide  surface,  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  the  long  swell  of  the  ocean  had 
changed  into  vast  rolling  undulations,  to 
the  motion  of  which  the  ship  yielded, 
slowly  ascending  and  descending  as  the 
waters  rose  and  fell,  while  the  yards 
creaked,  and  the  rigging  twanged  to  the 
strain  upon  them. 

Every  moment  the  sky  grew  darker, 
and  as  gloom  gathered  above  so  it  in- 
creased below,  till  all  the  sea  spread  out 
a  smooth  ebon  mass.  Darkness  settled 
down,  and  the  sun's  face  was  thus  ob- 
scured, and  a  preternatural  gloom 
gathered  upon  the  face  of  nature.  Over- 
head vast  black  clouds  went  sweeping 


0 

I 

I 

0 

I 

111 

Z 

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0 


90 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


!i   , 


ll«il 


'  "i 
ii ;! 

!  li 
I!! 


past,  covering  all  things,  faster  and  faster, 
till  at  last  far  down  in  the  northern  sky 
the  heavens  were  all  obscured. 

But  amid  all  this  there  was  as  yet  not 
a  breath  of  wind.  Far  above  the  wind 
careered  in  a  narrow  current,  which  did 
not  touch  the  surface  of  the  sea  but  only 
bore  onward  the  clouds.  The  agitation 
of  the  sky  above  contrasted  with  the  still- 
ness below  made  the  latter  not  consoling 
but  rather  fearful,  for  this  could  be  none 
other  than  that  treacherous  stillne-s 
which  precedes  the  sudden  outburst  of 
the  hurricane. 

For  that  sudden  outburst  all  were  now 
looking,  expecting  it  every  moment.  On 
the  side  of  the  ship  where  the  wind  was 
expected  the  captain  was  standing,  look- 
ing anxiously  at  the  black  clouds  on  the 
horizon,  and  all  the  crew  were  gazing 
there  in  sympathy  with  him.  From  that 
quarter  the  wind  would  burst,  and  it  was 
for  this  assault  that  all  the  preparations 
had  been  made. 

For  some  time  Brandon  had  watched 
the  collecting  clouds,  but  at  length  he 
turned  away,  and  seemed  to  find  a  su- 
preme fascination  in  the  sand-bank.  He 
stood  at  the  stern  of  the  ship,  looking 
fixedly  toward  the  rock,  his  arms  folded, 
and  his  thoughts  all  absorbed  in  that  one 
thing.  A  low  railing  ran  round  the 
quarter-deck.  The  helmsman  stood  in  a 
sheltered  place  which  rose  only  two  feet 
above  the  deck.  The  captain  stood  by 
the  companion-way,  looking  south  at  the 
storm  ;  the  mate  was  near  the  capstan, 
and  all  were  intent  and  absorbed  in  their 
expectation  of  a  sudden  squall. 

Close  by  the  rudder-post  stood  Cigole, 
looking  with  all  the  rest  at  the  gathering 
storm.  His  face  was  only  half  turned, 
and  as  usual  he  watched  this  with  only  a 
furtive  glance,  for  at  times  his  stealthy 
ey^>s  turned    toward  Brandon ;  and    he 


alone  of  all  on  board  did  not  seem  to 
absorbed  by  some  overmastering  thougj 

Suddenly  a  faint,  fluttering  ripple 
peared  to  the  southward  ;  it  came  quick'(| 
it  seemed  to  flash  over  the  waters  ;  wi 
the  speed  of  the  wind  moved  on,  till 
quick,  fresh  blast  struck  the  ship  a 
sighed    through  the    rigging.     Then 
faint  breathing  of  wind  succeeded;  I 
far  away  there  arose  a  low  moan  li  ' 
that  which  arises  from  some  vast  catarj 
at  a  great  distance,  whose  roar,  subdui 
by  distance,  sounds  faintly,  yet  warningi 
to  the  ear. 

At  this  first  touch  of  the  tempest,  at 
the  menacing  voice  of  its  approach,  not 
word  was  spoken,  but  all  stood  mut 
Brandon  alone  appeared  not  to  ha 
noticed  it.  He  still  stood  with  folcl( 
arms  and  absorbed  air,  gazing  at  tl 
island. 

The  roar  of  the  waters  in  the  distanc 
grew  louder,  and  in  the  direction  fror 
which  it  came  the  dark  water  was  all  wliii 
with  foam,  and  the  boiling  flood  advancei 
nearer  in  myriad-numbered  waves,  wliicl 
seemed  now  like  an  army  rushing  t 
the  charge,  tossing  on  high  its  crestei 
heads  and  its  countless  foam  plumes,  aiK . 
threatening  to  bear  down  all  before  it. 

At  last  the  tornado  struck. 

At  the  fierce  blast  of  the  storm  the  sl)i[ 
rolled  far  over,  the  masts  creaked  aiii 
groaned,  the  waves  rushed  up  and  dasliei 
against  the  side. 

At  that  instant  Cigole  darted  quickl; 
toward  Brandon,  and  the  moment  thai 
the  vessel  yielded  to  the  blow  of  tli(  1 
storm  he  fell  violently  against  him.  lU 
fore  Brandon  had  noticed  the  storm,  o\ 
had  time  to  steady  himself,  he  had  pusliuc: 
him  headlong  over  the  rail  and  help- 
lessly into  the  sea : 

" li^uidas  projecit  in  undM 

I'rtecipitcm." 


SINKING    IN    DEEP    WATERS 


ai 


Igole  clung  to  the  rail,  and  instantly 
(ked  out : 

Ian  overboard ! " 

le  startling  cry  rang    through  the 
The  captain  turned  round  with  a 
jof  agony. 

Ian    overboard ! "    shouted    Cigole 
"  Help !    It's  Brandon ! " 

srandon  !  "  cried  the  captain,    "  He's 
IJ    O  God !  " 
le  took  up  a  hen-coop  from  its  fasten- 

and  flung  it  into  the  sea;  and  a 
3le  of  pails  after  it. 
\e  then  looked  aloft  and  to  the  south 

eyes  of  despair.    He  could  do  noth- 

For  now  the  storm  was  upon  them, 

the  ship  was  plunging  furiously 
|)ugh  the  waters  with  the  speed  of  a 
-horse  at  the  touch  of  the  gale.  On 
[lee-side  lay  the  sand-bank,  now  only 
be  miles  away,  whose  unknown  shal- 
[s  made  their  present  position  perilous 
(the    extreme.    The  ship    could  not 


turn  to  try  and  save  the  lost  passenger ; 
it  was  only  by  keeping  straight  on  that 
there  was  any  hope  of  avoiding  that  lee 
shore. 

All  on  board  shared  the  captain's 
despair,  for  dl  saw  that  nothing  could 
be  done.  The  ship  was  at  the  mercy  of 
the  hurricane.  To  turn  was  impossible. 
If  they  could  save  their  own  lives  now 
it  would  be  as  much  as  they  could 
do. 

Away  went  the  smp — away,  farther 
and  farther,  every  moment  leaving  at 
a  greater  distance  the  lost  man  who 
struggled  in  the  waters. 

At  last  they  had  passed  the  danger,  the 
island  was  left  behind,  and  the  wide  sea 
lay  all  around. 

But  by  this  time  the  storm  was  at  its 
height ;  the  ship  could  not  maintain  its 
proper  course,  but,  yielding  to  the  gale, 
fled  to  the  northwest  far  out  of  its  right 
direction. 


CHAPTER  IV 


SINKING  IN   DEEP  WATERS 


Jrandon,  overwhelmed  by  the  rush 

waters,  half  suffocated,  and  struggling 
the  rush  of  the  waves,  shrieked  out  a 

despairing  cries  for  help,  and  sought 

|keep  his  head  above  water  as  best  he 

jld.    But  his  cries  were  borne  off  by 

fierce  winds,  and  the  ship,  as  it 
|-eered  madly  before  the  blast,  was  soon 

of  hearing. 

le  was  a  first-rate  swimmer,  but  in  a 

like  this  it  needed  all  his  strength  and 
his  skill  to  save  himself  from  impend- 

death.    Encumbered  by  his  clothes  it 


was  still  more  difficult,  yet  so  fierce  was 
the  rush  of  wind  and  wave  that  he  dared 
not  stop  for  a  moment  in  his  struggles, 
in  order  to  divest  himself  of  his  clothing. 
At  first,  by  a  mere  blind  instinct,  he 
tried  to  swim  after  the  ship,  as  though 
by  any  possibility  he  could  ever  reach  her 
again,  but  the  hurricane  was  against 
him,  arJ  he  was  forced  sideways  far  out 
of  the  course  which  he  was  trying  to 
take.  At  last  the  full  possession  of  his 
senses  was  restored,  and  following  the 
ship  no   longer  he  turned  toward  the 


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33 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


m 


direction  where  that  sand  island  lay 
which  had  been  the  cause  of  his  disaster. 
At  first  it  was  hidden  from  view  by  the 
swell  of  waves  that  rose  in  front,  but 
soon  rising  upon  the  crest  of  one  of  these 
he  perceived  far  away  the  dark  form  of 
the  coffin-shaped  rock.  Here  then  be- 
fore him  lay  the  island,  and  toward  this 
both  wind  and  wave  impelled  him. 

But  the  rock  was  far  to  the  right,  and 
it  might  be  that  the  island  did  not  ex- 
tend far  enough  to  meet  him  as  he  neared 
it.  It  was  about  five  miles  in  length,  but 
in  his  efforts  he  might  not  be  able  to 
reach  even  the  western  extremity.  Still 
there  was  nothing  else  to  do  but  to  try. 
Resolutely,  therefore,  though  half  despair- 
ingly, he  put  forth  his  best  strength,  and 
struggled  manfully  to  win  the  shore. 

That  lone  and  barren  sand-bank,  after 
all,  offered  but  a  feeble  chance  for  life. 
Even  if  he  did  reach  it,  which  was  doubt- 
ful, what  could  he  do  ?  Starvation  in- 
stead of  drowning  would  be  his  fate. 
More  than  once  it  occurred  to  him  that 
it  would  be  better  then  and  there  to  give 
up  all  efforts  and  let  himself  go.  But 
then  there  came  the  thought  of  those 
dear  ones  who  waited  for  him  in  Eng- 
land, the  thought  of  the  villain  who  had 
thrown  him  from  the  ship,  and  the 
greater  villain  who  had  sent  him  out  on 
his  murderous  errand.  He  could  not 
bear  the  idea  that  they  should  triumph 
over  him  so  easily  and  so  quickly.  His 
vengeance  should  not  be  taken  from  him  ; 
it  had  been  baffled,  but  it  still  nerved  his 
arm. 

A  half  hour's  struggle,  which  seemed 
like  many  hours',  had  brought  him  much 
nearer  to  the  island,  but  his  strength  was 
almost  exhausted.  His  clothes,  caught 
in  the  rush  of  the  waves,  and  clinging  to 
him,  confined  the  free  action  of  his  limbs, 
and  lent  an  additional  weight.    Another 


half  hour's  exertion  might  possibly  br  1 
him  to  the  shore,  but  that  exertion  hatj 
seemed  possible.  It  was  but  with  d 
culty  now  that  he  could  strike  out.  Oil 
the  rush  of  the  waves  from  behind  wo 
overwhelm  him,  and  it  was  only  by  ci 
vulsive  efforts  that  he  was  able  to 
mount  the  raging  billows  and  regain 
breath. 

Efforts  like  these,  however,  were 
exhaustive  to  be  long  continued.     Nat 
failed,  and  already  a  wild  despair  ca ' 
over    him.    For  a  quarter  of  an  h 
longer  he  had  continued  his  exertio 
and  now  the  island  was  so  near  tha 
quarter  of  an  hour  more  might  bring) 
to  it.    But  even  that  exertion  of  strer 
was    now  no  longer  possible.    Fai; 
and  feebly,  and  with  failing  limbs  i 
fiercely  throbbing  heart,  he  toiled  on,  i 
til  at  last  any  lurther  effort  seemed  i 
possible.    Before  him   was  the  moi 
which  he  had  noticed  from  the  ship, 
was  at  the  western  extremity  of  the  isla: 
He  saw  that  he  was  being  carried  in  su 
a  direction  that  even  if  he  did  struggle 
he  might  be  borne  helplessly  past  r 
island  and  out  into  the  open  sea. 
ready  he  could  look  past  the  island,  i] 
see  the  wide  expanse  of  white  foam: 
waves  which   threatened  to  engulf  hi 
The  sight  weakened  what  little  stren; 
was    left,    and    made   his    efforts  c 
feebler. 

Despairingly    he  looked  around,  i 
knowing  what  he  sought,  but  seek: 
still  for  something,  he  knew  not  wk; ' 
In  that  last  look  of  despair  his  eyescauj  ^ 
sight  of  something  which  at  once  g: 
him  renewed  hope.     It  was  not  far  aw: 
Borne  along  by  the  waves  it  was  bui 
few  yards  distant,  and  a  little  behind  hi 
It  was  the  hencoop  which  the  captain  I 
the /ava  had  thrown  overboard  so  as, 
give  Brandon  a  chance  (or  life.    TL 


SINKING    IN    DEEP    WATERS 


23 


chance  was  now  thrown  in  his  way, 
khe  hencoop  had  followed  the  same 
Be  with  himself,  and  had  been  swept 

not  very  far  from  him. 
kndon  was  nerved  to  new  efforts  by 
light  of  this.    He  turned  and  exerted 
[last    remnants  of    his    strength  in 

to  reach  this  means  of  safety.     It 

near  enough  to  be  accessible.    A 

[vigorous    strokes,  a    few  struggles 

1  the  waves,  and  his  hands  clutched 

jars  with  the  grasp  of  a  drowning 

was  a  large  hen-coop,  capable  of 
})ing  several  men  afloat.  Brandon 
|g  to  this  and  at  las^  had  rest, 
minute    of    respite     from    such 

jgles  as  he  had  carried  on  restored 
jstrength  to  a  greater  degree.  He 
|d  now  keep  his  head  high  out  of  the 
jr  and  avoid  the  engulfing  fury  of  the 
\es  behind.  Now  at  last  he  could 
a  better  survey  of  the  prospect 
[»re  him,  and  see  more  plainly  whither 
iras  going. 

\he  sand-bank  lay  before  him ;  the 
ind  at  the  western  extremity  was  in 
jit  of  him,  not  very  far  away.     The 

which  lay  at  the  eastern  end  was 

at  a  great  distance,  for  he  had  been 
|pt  by  the  current  abreast  of  the  island, 

was  even  now  in  danger  of  being 
("ied  past  it.  Still  there  was  hope,  for 
[d  and  wave  were  blowing  directly 
rard  the  island,  and  there  was  a 
Ince  of  his  being  carried  full  upon  its 
Ire.  Yet  the  chance  was  a  slender 
|,  for  the  set  of  the  tide  rather  carried 
beyond  the  line  of  the  western 
remity. 
Every  minute    brought    him    nearer, 

soon   his   fate  would   be    decided. 

irer  and  nearer  he  came,  still  clinging 

[the  hen-coop,  and  making  no  efforts 

itever,  but  reserving  and  collecting 


together  all  his  strength,  so  as  to  put  it 
forth  at  the  final  hour  of  need. 

But  as  he  came  nearer  the  island  ap- 
peared to  move  more  and  more  out  of 
the  line  of  his  approach.  Under  these 
circumstances  his  only  chance  was  to 
float  as  near  as  possible,  and  then  make 
a  last  effort  to  reach  the  land. 

Nearer  and  nearer  he  came.  At  last 
he  was  close  by  it,  but  the  extreme 
point  of  the  island  lay  to  the  right  more 
than  twenty  yards.  This  was  the  crisis 
of  his  fate,  for  now  if  he  floated  on  any 
longer,  he  would  be  carried  farther  away. 

The  shore  was  here  low  but  steep,  the 
waters  appeared  to  be  deep,  and  a  heavy 
surf  dashed  upon  the  island,  and  threw 
up  its  spray  far  over  the  mound.  He 
was  so  near  that  he  could  distinguish  the 
pebbles  on  the  beach,  and  could  see  be- 
yond the  mound  a  long,  flat  surface  with 
thin  grass  growing. 

Beyond  this  point  was  another  a  hun- 
dred yards  away,  but  farther  out  of  his 
reach,  and  affording  no  hope  whatever. 
Between  the  two  points  there  was  an 
inlet  into  the  island  showing  a  little 
cove;  but  the  surf  just  here  became 
wilder,  and  long  rollers  careered  one 
past  another  over  the  intervening  space. 
It  was  a  hopeless  prospect.  Yet  it  was 
his  last  chance. 

Brandon  made  up  his  mind.  He  let 
go  the  hen-coop,  and  summoning  up  all 
his  strength  he  struck  out  for  the  shore. 
But  this  time  the  wind  and  sea  were 
against  him,  bearing  him  past  the  point, 
and  the  waves  dashed  over  him  more 
quickly  and  furiously  than  before.  He 
was  swept  past  the  point  before  he  had 
made  half  a  dozen  strokes ;  he  was  borne 
on  still  struggling ;  and  now  on  his  left 
lay  the  rollers  which  he  had  seen.  In 
spite  of  all  his  efforts  he  was  farther  away 
from  the  island  than  when  he  had  left  the 


»4 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


!liii!i!iiij! 


■  mi 


m  M 


hen-coop.  Yet  all  hope  and  all  life  de- 
pended upon  the  issue  of  this  last  effort. 
The  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  of  rest  and 
of  breathing  space  which  he  had  gained 
had  been  of  immense  advantage,  and  he 
struggled  with  all  the  force  which  could 
be  inspired  by  the  nearness  of  safety. 
Yet,  after  all,  human  efforts  cannot  with- 
stand the  fury  of  the  elements,  and  here, 
against  this  strong  sea,  the  strongest 
swimmer  could  not  hope  to  contend 
successfully. 

"Never  I  ween  was  swimmer 
In  such  an  evil  case." 

He  swam  toward  the  shore,  but  the 
wind  striking  him  from  one  side,  and 
urging  on  the  sea,  drove  him  sideways. 
Some  progress  was  made,  but  the  force 
of  the  waters  was  fearful,  and  for  every 
foot  that  he  moved  forward  he  was  car- 
ried six  feet  to  leeward.  He  himself  saw 
this,  and  calculating  his  chances  he  per- 
ceived with  despair  that  he  was  already 
beyond  the  first  point,  and  that  at  the 
present  rate  there  was  no  possibility  of 
gaining  the  farther  point. 

Already  the  waves  leaped  exultingly 
about  him,  dashing  over  him  now  more 
wildly,  since  he  was  exposed  more  than 
before  to  their  full  sweep.  Already  the 
rollers  lay  close  beside  him  on  his  left. 
Then  it  seemed  as  though  he  would  be 
engulfed.  Turning  his  haad  backward 
with  a  last  faint  thought  of  trying  to  re- 
gain the  hen-coop,  so  as  to  prolong  life 
somewhat,  he  saw  it  far  away  out  of  his 
reach.    Then  all  hope  left  him. 

He  was  now  at  the  outermost  line  of 
rollers.  At  the  moment  that  he  turned 
his  head  a  huge  wave  raised  him  up  and 
bore  him  forward.  He  struggled  still, 
even  in  that  time  of  despair,  and  fought 
with  his  enemies.  They  bore  him  on- 
ward,  however,    none    the    less    help- 


lessly, and,  descending,  carried  him  wj 
them. 

But  now  at  last,  as  he  descended  \m 
that  wave,  hope  came  back,  and  all 
despair  vanished. 

For  as  the  wave  flung  him  downwj 
his  feet  touched  bottom,  and  he  st(] 
for  a  moment  erect,  on  solid,  hard  srl 
in  water  that  scarcely  reached  above 
knees.  It  was  for  a  moment  only  i\\ 
he  stood,  however,  for  the  sweep  of  i| 
water  bore  him  down,  and  he  fell  forwaj 
Before  he  could  regain  himself  anot 
wave  came  and  hurled  him  farther  i  i 
ward. 

By  a  violent  effort  he  staggered  to  lev 
feet.  In  an  instant  he  comprehenc 
his  position.  At  this  western  end  i 
island  descended  gently  into  the  wat 
and  the  shoal  which  it  formed  extend 
for  miles  away.  It  was  this  shoal  tl 
caused  the  long  rollers  that  came  oi 
them  so  vehemently,  and  in  such  mark 
contrast  with  the  more  abrupt  waves 
the  sea  behind. 

In  an  instant  he  had  comprehend] 
this,  and  had  taken  his  course  of  actic  i 

Now  he  had  foothold.  Now  ti 
ground  beneath  lent  its  aid  to  his  <! 
deavor;  he  was  no  longer  altogether 
the  mercy  of  the  water.  He  bound 
forward  toward  the  shore  in  such  a  dire  j 
tion  that  he  could  approach  it  vvithoi 
opposing  himself  entirely  to  the  vvavd 
The  point  that  stretched  out  was  no  I 
within  his  reach.  The  waves  rolled  pai* 
it,  but  by  moving  in  an  oblique  directic; 
he  could  gain  it. 

Again  and  again  the  high  rollers  can, 
forward,  hurling  him  up  as  they  caugtl 
him  in  their  embrace,  and  then  castiri 
him  down  again.     As  he  was  caught  t 
from  the  bottom,  he  sustained  himself  c  j 
the  moving  mass,  and  supported  himsti 
on  the  crest  of  the  wave,  but  as  soon  as  i 


THE   MYSTERY    OF   COFFIN    ISLAND 


as 


Jouched  bottom  again  he  sprang  for- 

I  toward  the  point,  which  now  became 

minute  more    accessible.    Wave 

I  wave  came,  each  more  furious,  each 

ravenous  than  the  preceding,  as 

gh  hounding  one  another  on  to  make 

[of  their  prey.    But  now  that  the 

of  life  was  strong,  and  safety  had 

almost    assured,    the    deathlike 

Iness  which  but  shortly  before  had 

lied    him    gave    way    to    newborn 

Igth  and  unconquerable  resolve. 

t  length  he  reached  a  place  where  the 

fs  were  of  less  dimensions.      His 

ress  became  more  rapid,  until    at 

Ih    the  water    became   exceedingly 


shallow,  being  not  more  than  a  foot  in 
depth.  Here  the  first  point,  where  the 
mound  was,  protected  it  from  the  wind 
and  sea.  This  was  the  cove  which  he 
had  noticed.  The  water  was  all  white 
with  foam,  but  offered  scarcely  any  re- 
sistance to  him.  He  had  but  to  wade 
onward  to  the  shore. 

That  shore  was  at  last  attained.  He 
staggered  up  a  few  paces  upon  the  sandy 
declivity,  and  then  fell  down  exhausted 
upon  the  ground. 

He  could  not  move.  It  was  late; 
night  came  on,  but  he  lay  where  he  had 
fallen,  until  at  last  he  fell  into  a  sound 
sleep. 


CHAPTER  V 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  COFFIN    ISLAND 


Then  Brandon  awaked  on  the  fol- 

ig  morning  the  sun  was  already  high 
ke  sky.  He  rose  at  once  and  walked 
lly  up,  with  stiffened  limbs,  to  a 
ler  spot.  His  clothes  already  were 
)y  dry,  but  they  were  uncomfortable 

impeded  his  motion.  He  took  off 
Hy  everything,  and  laid  them  out  on 
{sand.  Then  he  examined  his  pistol 
j  the  box  containing  cartridges.    This 

held  some  oil  also,  with  the  help  of 
:h  the  pistol  was  soon  in  good  order, 
^he  cartridges  were  encased  in  copper 

were  uninjured.  He  then  examined 
|ver  case  which  was  suspended  round 

neck.    It  was  cylindrical  in  shape, 

the  top  unscrewed.    On  opening  this 

|took  out  his  father's  letter  and  the 

jsure,  both  of  which  were  uninjured. 

[then  rolled  them  up  in  a  small  com- 

and  restored  them  to  their  place. 


He  now  began  to  look  about  him. 
The  storm  had  ceased,  the  waves  had 
subsided,  a  slight  breeze  was  blowing 
from  the  sea  which  just  ruffled  the  water 
and  tempered  the  heat.  The  island  on 
which  he  had  been  cast  was  low,  flat,  and 
covered  with  a  coarse  grass  which  grew 
out  of  the  sand.  But  tlie  sand  itself  was 
in  many  places  thrown  into  ridges,  and 
appeared  as  though  it  was  constantly 
shifting  and  changing.  The  mound  was 
not  far  away,  and  at  the  eastern  end  of 
the  island  he  could  see  the  black  outline 
of  the  rock  which  he  had  noticed  from 
the  ship.  The  length  he  had  before 
heard  to  be  about  five  miles,  the  width 
appeared  about  one  mile,  and  in  its 
whole  aspect  it  seemed  nothing  better 
than  the  abomination  of  desolation. 

At   the  end  where  he  was  the  island 
terminated  ia  two  points,  between  which 


0 
0 

J 

(T 
UJ 

I 

LL 
0 

>• 

h 

a: 

Lii 
> 

z 

:5 


;!-! 


'  I '' 


36 


CORD   AND   CREESE 


there  was  the  cove  where  he  had  found 
refuge.  One  of  these  points  was  distin> 
guished  by  the  mound  already  mentioned, 
which,  from  where  he  stood,  appeared  of 
an  irregular  oblong  shape.  The  other 
point  was  low,  and  descended  gently  into 
the  water.  The  island  itself  appeared  to 
be  merely  the  emergence  of  some  sand- 
bank which,  perhaps,  had  been  formed 
by  currents  and  eddies;  for  here  the 
currents  of  the  Strait  of  Sunda  encounter 
those  of  the  Southern  and  Indian  oceans, 
and  this  bank  lay  probably  near  their 
point  of  union. 

A  short  survey  showed  him  this.  It 
showed  him  also  that  there  was  but 
little  if  any  hope  of  sustaining  life,  and 
that  he  had  escaped  drowning  only  per- 
haps to  perish  by  the  more  lingering 
agonies  of  starvation. 

Already  hunger  and  thirst  had  begun 
to  be  felt,  and  how  to  satisfy  these  wants 
he  knew  not.  Still  he  would  not  despair. 
Perhaps  the  Java  might  return  in  search 
of  him,  and  his  confinement  would  only 
last  for  a  day  or  so. 

He  understood  the  act  of  Cigole  in  a 
way  that  was  satisfactory  to  himself. 
He  had  thrown  him  overboard,  but  had 
made  it  appear  like  an  accident.  As  he 
fell  he  had  heard  the  shout  "  Man  over- 
board!" and  was  now  able  to  account 
for  it  in  this  way.  So  a  faint  hope  re- 
mained that  the  captain  of  the  /ava 
would  not  give  him  up. 

Still  subsistence  of  some  kind  was 
necessary,  and  there  was  nothing  to  be 
done  but  to  explore  the  sandy  tract  be- 
fore him.  Setting  forth  he  walked  to- 
ward the  rock  along  the  seashore.  On 
one  side  toward  the  north  the  shore  was 
shallow  and  sloped  gently  into  the  water ; 
but  on  the  southern  side  it  descended 
more  abruptly.  The  tide  was  out.  A 
Steep  beach  appeared  here  covered  with 


stones  to  which  myriads  of  shelU 
were  attached.  The  sight  of  these  s: 
gested  the  idea  to  him  that  on  the  o[;> 
site  side  there  might  be  clams  in  <i 
sand.  He  walked  over  there  in  seat; 
of  them.  Here  the  slope  was  so  gradg 
that  extensive  flats  were  left  uncoverc 
by  the  receding  tide. 

When  a  boy  he  had  been  sometime 
accustomed  to  wander  on  sand  flats  m 
his  home,  and  dig  up  these  clams : 
sport.  Now  his  boyish  experience  t» 
came  useful.  Myriads  of  little  hole 
dotted  the  sand,  which  he  knew  to  It  Aunded;  at  the  i 
the  indications  of  these  moUusks,  ai^  {  ^^  irregular ;  bu 
he  at  once  began  to  scoop  in  the  ai 
with  his  hands.  In  a  short  time  he  k 
found  enough  to  satisfy  his  hunger,  ait 
what  was  better,  he  saw  all  round  t 
unlimited  supply  of  such  food. 

Yet  food  was  not  enough.  Drink  n 
equally  necessary.  The  salt  of  thei 
shell-iish  aggravated  the  thirst  thati 
had  already  begun  to  feel,  and  now  a  k 
came  over  him  that  there  might  bett: 
water.  The  search  seemed  a  hopeles 
one;  but  he  determined  to  seek  for; 
nevertheless,  and  the  only  place  tlii; 
seemed  to  promise  success  was  the  roci 
at  the  eastern  end.  Toward  this  he  noi 
once  more  directed  his  steps. 


ndred  feet  in  ler 

ight.    There  wa 

ffin  now  as  Bran 

It  likeness  was 

tance.    Its  side 

litous.    It  was 

thout  any  outlyi 

entsnearit.    Its 

be  level,  and  ir 

ry  easy  to  asce 

aces  Brandon  cl 

1  the  top. 

Near  him  the  s 


sank  into  a  deej 
lat  which  at  oni 
ope  and  fear.  H 
last  fifty  feet  in  < 
ince  the  sides  ol 
leeply.    But  was 

the  accumulatii 


The  island  was  all  of  sand  except  tli  f  |  jg^yp  kneeling 
rocks  on  the  south  beach  and  the  cliSa ; 
the  eastern  end.  Coarse  grass  grewven 
extensively  over  the  surface,  but  the  sani 
was  fine  and  loose,  and  in  many  place 
thrown  up  into  heaps  of  many  differet 
shapes.  The  grass  grew  in  tufts  oris 
spires  and  blades,  thinly  scattered,  am 
nowhere  forming  a  sod.  The  soil  n 
difficult  to  walk  over,  and  Brandoi 
sought  the  beach,  where  the  damp  saiii 


he  rainy  season 
ut  the  result  of 
irhich  had  hurlei 
ill  the  hollow  wa 
With  hasty  foo 
he  margin  of  the 
aste.  For  a  m( 
atural  feeHng,  h 
ng  off  the  feve 


afforded  a  firmer  foothold.    In  about  a  "  {^^  ^^^  receptic 


hour  and  a  half  he  reached  the  rock. 
It  was  between  five  hundred  and 


'!li'! 

:i!ii 


ips  touched  th( 

It  was  fresh! 

eavens  above,  a 

ow.    It  was  the 

that  had  filled  th 

spray  from  the 

e  quaffed  the 

a  trace  of  the  i 

tected.    It  was 

thus  lay  before 


Si 


present,  at  leas 
He  had  food 


THE    MYSTERY    OF   COFFIN    ISLAND 


ay 


>f  shell-j 

these  s. 

)n  the  ofjs 

ams  in  l' 

e  in  sei: 
so  grade 
uncover 

sometime 

id  flats  riti 

se  clams ! 

)erience  bt 

little    hob 

knew  tok 

ollusks,  at: 

in  the  san 

time  he  k 

lunger,  m. 

U  round r 

od. 

Drink  u 

It   of   thtt 

lirst  thath 

i  now  a  iw 

night  bcK 

a  hopelsi. 

seek  forii 

place   that 

^as  the  roci^ 

this  he  noi 

except  tl  f| 
1  the  cliff  i 
»s  grewvei 
lut  the  sai 
lany  placi 
ny  differei 
tufts  or 
ttered,  ai 
le  soil  wi 
1    Brandoi 
damp  saiii 
n  about  ai^ 
e  rock, 
ed  and  iti 


ndred  feet  in  length,  and  about  fifty  in 

Kght.    There  was  no  resemblance  to  a 

in  now  as  Brandon  approached  it,  for 

It  likeness  was  only  discernible  at  a 

stance.    Its  sides  were  steep  and  pre- 

>itous.    It  was  one  black  solid  mass, 

|thout  any  outlying  crags,  or  any  frag- 

;nts  near  it.    Its  upper  surface  appeared 

be  level,  and  in  various  places  it  was 

)ry  easy  to  ascend.    Up  one  of  these 

laces  Brandon  climbed,  and  soon  stood 

the  top. 

Near  him  the  summit  was  somewhat 

)unded;  at  the  farther  end  it  was  flat 

id  irregular ;  but  between  the  two  ends 

sank  into  a  deep  hollow,  where  he  saw 

lat  which  at  once  excited  a  tumult  of 

)pe  and  fear.    It  was  a  pool  of  water  at 

fcast  fifty  feet  in  diameter,  and  deep  too, 

ince  the  sides  of  the  rock  went  down 

tecply.     But  was  it  fresh  or  salt  ?    Was 

the  accumulation  from  the  showers  of 

le  rainy  season  of  the  tropics,  or  was  it 

[ut  the  result  of  the  past  night's  storm, 

ifhich  had  hurled  wave  after  wave  here 

ill  the  hollow  was  filled  ? 

With  hasty  footsteps  he  rushed  toward 

ihe  margin  of  the  pool,  and  bent  down  to 

laste.    For  a  moment  or  so,  by  a  very 

latural  feeling,  he  hesitated,  then,  throw- 

fng  off  the  fever  of  suspense,  he  bent 

lown,  kneeling  on  the  margin,  till  his 

fips  touched  the   water. 

It  was  fresh!    Yes,  it  was  from  the 

leavcns  above,  and  not  from  the  sea  be- 

|ow.    It  was  the  fresh  rains  from  the  sky 

that  had  filled  this  deep  pool,  and  not  the 

spray  from  the  sea.    Again  and  again 

le  quaffed  the   refreshing  liquid.    Not 

trace  of  the  salt  water  could  be  de- 

[tected.    It  was  a  natural  cistern  which 

thus  lay  before  him,  formed  as  though 

[for  the  reception  of  the  rain.    For  the 

[present,  at  least,  he  was  safe. 

He  had  food  and  drink.    As  long  as 


the  rainy  season  lasted,  and  for  some 
time  after,  life  was  secure.  Life  becomes 
doubly  sweet  after  being  purchased  by 
such  efforts  as  those  which  Brandon  had 
put  forth,  and  the  thought  that  for  the 
present,  at  least,  he  was  safe  did  not 
fail  to  fill  him  with  the  most  buoyant 
hope.  To  him,  indeed,  it  seemed  just 
then  as  if  nothing  more  could  be  desired. 
He  had  food  and  drink  in  abundance. 
In  that  climate  shelter  was  scarcely 
needed.    What  more  could  he  wish  ? 

The  first  day  was  passed  in  exploring 
the  rock  to  see  if  there  was  any  place 
which  he  might  select  for  his  abode. 
There  were  several  fissures  in  the  rock 
at  the  eastern  end,  and  one  of  these  he 
selected.  He  then  went  back  for  his 
clothes,  and  brought  them  to  this  place. 
So  the  first  day  went. 

All  the  time  his  eyes  wandered  round 
the  horizon  to  see  if  a  sail  might  be  in 
sight.  After  two  or  three  days,  in  which 
nothing  appeared,  he  ceased  his  constant 
watch,  though  still  from  time  to  time,  by 
a  natural  impulse,  he  continued  to  look. 
After  all  he  thought  that  rescue  might 
come.  He"  was  somewhat  out  of  the 
track  of  the  China  ships,  but  still  not  very 
much  so.  An  adverse  wind  might  bring 
a  ship  close  by.  The  hope  of  this  sus- 
tained him. 

But  day  succeeded  to  day  and  week  to 
week  with  no  appearance  of  anything 
whatever  on  the  wide  ocean. 

During  these  long  days  he  passed  the 
greater  part  of  his  time  either  under  the 
shelter  of  the  rock,  w  here  he  could  best 
avoid  the  hot  sun,  or  when  the  sea  breeze 
blew  on  its  summit.  The  frightful  soli- 
tude offered  to  him  absolutely  nothing 
which  could  distract  his  thoughts,  or  pre- 
vent him  from  brooding  upon  the  help- 
lessness of  his  situation. 

Brooding   thus,  it  became    his    chief 


CQ 


O 

o 


o 

> 

cc 


38 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


I 


'I   I! 


occupation  to  read  over  and  over  his 
father's  letter  and  the  enclosure,  and  con- 
jecture what  might  be  his  course  of  action 
if  he  ever  escaped  from  this  place.  His 
father's  voice  seemed  now  to  sound  to 
him  more  imploringly  than  ever ;  and  the 
winds  at  night,  as  they  moaned  round 
the  rock,  seemed  to  modulate  themselves, 
to  form  their  sounds  to  something  like  a 
wild  cry,  and  wail  forth,  "  Come  home  !  " 
Yet  that  home  was  now  surely  farther 
removed  than  ever,  and  the  winds  seemed 
only  to  mock  him.  More  sad  and  more 
despairing  than  Ulysses  on  the  Ogygian 
shore,  he  too  wasted  away  with  home- 
sickness. 

Kareipero  de  yTiVKvg  aiov  vdoTov  bivpofitvtji. 

Fate  thus  far  had  been  against  him, 
and  the  melancholy  recollections  of  his 
past  life  could  yield  nothing  but  despond- 
ency. Driven  from  home  when  but  a 
boy,  he  had  become  an  exile,  had 
wandered  to  the  other  side  of  the  world, 
and  was  just  beginning  to  attain  some 
prospect  of  a  fortune  when  this  letter 
came.  Rising  up  from  the  prostration  of 
that  blow,  he  had  struggled  against  fate, 
but  only  to  encounter  a  more  overmaster- 
ing force,  and  this  last  stroke  had  been 
the  worst  of  all.  Could  he  rally  after 
this  ?    Could  he  now  hope  to  escape  ? 

Fate  had  been  against  him  ;  but  yet, 
perhaps,  here  on  this  lonely  island,  he 
might  find  a  turning  point.  Here  he 
might  find  that  turning  in  the  long  lane 
which  the  proverb  speaks  of.  "  The 
day  is  darkest  before  the  morn,"  and  per- 
haps he  would  yet  have  Fate  on  his  side. 

But  the  sternest  and  most  courageous 
spirit  can  hardly  maintain  its  fortitude  in 
an  utter  and  unmitigated  solitude.  St. 
Simeon  Stylites  could  do  so,  but  he  felt 
that  on  the  top  of  that  pillar  there  rested 
the  eyes  of  the  heavenly  hosts  and  of 


admiring  mankind.  It  is  when  the  ct 
sciousness  of  utter  solitude  comes  tl, 
the  soul  sinks.  When  the  prisoner  thint 
that  he  is  forgotten  by  the  outside  wott 
then  he  loses  that  strength  which  st; 
tained  him  while  he  believed  himst 
remembered. 

It  was  the  lot  of  Brandon  to  have  tk 
sense  of  utter  desolation;  to  feel  thati 
all  the  world  there  was  not  one  huinit 
being  that  knew  of  his  fate ;  and  to  feai 
that  the  eye  of  Providence  only  saw  lie 
with  indifference.  With  bitterness  \>. 
thought  of  the  last  words  of  his  fatheri 
letter  :  "  If  in  that  other  world  to  wliic: 
I  am  going  the  disembodied  spirit  can 
assist  man,  then  be  sure,  oh,  my  son,  1 
vill  assist  you,  and  in  the  crisis  of  youi 
fate  I  will  be  near,  if  it  is  only  to  comniii. 
nicate  to  your  spirit  what  you  ought  to 
do."  \ 

A  melancholy  smile  passed  over  his' 
face  as  he  thought  of  what  seemed  to 
him  the  utter  futility  of  that  promis  . 

Now,  as  the  weeks  passed,  his  wholtj 

mode  of    life    affected  both   mind  and  ^ 

1% 

body.  Yet,  if  it  be  the  highest  stated  a 
man  for  the  soul  to  live  by  itself,  as 
Socrates  used  to  teach,  and  sever  itseli 
from  bodily  association,  Brandon  surely 
had  attained,  without  knowing  it,  a  most 
exalted  stage  of  existence.  Perhaps  i' 
was  the  period  of  purification  and 
preparation  for  future  work. 

The  weather  varied  incessantly,  calms 
and  r(orms  alternating;  sometimes  all 
the  .^a  lying  dull,  listless,  and  glassy 
under  the  burning  sky ;  at  other  times 
both  sea  and  sky  convulsed  with  the  war 
of  elements. 

At  last  there  came  one  storm  so 
tremendous  that  it  exceeded  all  that 
Brandon  had  ever  seen  anywhere. 

The  wind  gathered  itself  up  from  the 
southeast,  and  for  a  whole  day  the  forces 


, 


i< 


THE    MYSTERY    OF   COFFIN    ISLAND 


»9 


the  tempest  collected  themselves,  till 
|t  last  they  burst  in  fury  upon  the  island, 
sustained  violence  and  in  the  frenzy 
[l  its  assault  it  far  surpassed  that  first 
brm.  Before  sundown  the  storm  was 
|t  its  height,  and,  though  yet  day,  the 
llouds  were  so  dense  and  so  black  that 
became  like  night.  Night  came  on, 
Ind  the  storm  and  roar  and  darkness 
icreased  steadily  every  hour.  So  in- 
tense was  the  darkness  that  the  hand, 
irhen  held  close  by  the  face,  could  not 
)e  distinguished.  So  resistless  was  the 
lorce  of  the  wind  that  Brandon,  on  look- 
ing out  to  sea,  had  to  cling  to  the  rock 
\o  prevent  himself  from  being  blown 
ivvay.  A  dense  rain  of  spray  streamed 
|through  the  air,  and  the  surf,  rolling  up, 
lung  its  crest  all  across  the  island. 
3randon  could  hear  beneath  him,  amid 
some  of  the  pauses  of  the  storm,  the 
[liissing  and  bubbling  of  foaming  waters. 
Its  though  the  whole  island,  submerged 
py  the  waves,  was  slowly  settling  down 
into  the  depths  of  the  ocean. 

Brandon's  place  of  shelter  was  suflfi- 

Iciently  elevated  to  be  out  of  the  reach  of 

Ithe  waves  that  might  rush  upon  the  land, 

land  on  the  lee  side  of  the  rock,  so  that 

[he   was    sufficiently    protected.     Sand, 

which  he  had  carried  up,  formed  his  bed. 

In  this  place,  which  was  more  like  the 

lair  of  a  wild  beast  than  the  abode  of 

a  human  being,  he  had  to  live.    Many 

wakeful  nights  he  had  passed  there,  but 

never  had  he  known  such  a  night  as 

i  this. 

There  was  a  frenzy  about  this  hurri- 
I  cane  that  would  have  been  inconceivable 
I  if  he  had  not  witnessed  it.  His  senses, 
refined  and  rendered  acute  by  long  vigils 
and  slender  diet,  seemed  to  detect  audible 
words  in  the  voice  of  the  storm.  Look- 
ing out  through  the  gloom,  his  sight 
seemed  to  discern  shapes  flitting  by  like 


lightning,  as  though  the  fabled  spirits  of 
the  storm  had  gathered  here. 

It  needed  all  the  robust  courage  of  his 
strong  nature  to  sustain  himself  in  the 
presence  of  the  wild  fancies  that  now 
came  rushing  and  thronging  before  his 
mind.  The  words  of  his  father  sounded 
in  his  ears ;  he  thought  he  heard  them 
spoken  from  the  air ;  he  thought  he  saw 
an  aged  spectral  face,  wan  with  suffering 
and  grief,  in  front  of  his  cave.  He  cov- 
ered his  eyes  with  his  hands,  and  sought 
to  reason  down  his  superstitious  feeling. 
In  vain.  Words  rang  in  his  ears,  muified 
words,  as  though  muttered  in  the  storm, 
and  his  mind,  which  had  brooded  so  long 
over  his  father's  letter,  now  gave  shape  to 
the  noise  of  winds  and  waves. 

"  In  the  crisis  of  your  fate  I  will  be 
near." 

"  I  shall  go  mad ! "  cried  Brandon, 
aloud,  and  he  started  to  his  feet. 

But  the  storm  went  on  with  its  fury, 
and  still  his  eyes  saw  shapes,  and  his  ears 
heard  fantastic  sounds.  So  the  night 
passed  until  at  last  the  storm  had  ex- 
hausted itself.  Then  Brandon  sank 
down  and  slept  far  on  into  the  day. 

When  he  awaked  again  the  storm  had 
subsided.  The  sea  was  still  boisterous, 
and  a  fresh  breeze  blew,  which  he  inhaled 
with  pleasure.  After  obtaining  some 
shell-fish,  and  satisfying  his  appetite,  he 
went  to  the  summit  of  the  rock  for  water, 
and  then  stood  looking  out  at  sea. 

His  eye  swept  the  whole  circuit  of  the 
horizon  without  seeing  anything,  until  at 
length  he  turned  to  look  in  a  westwardly 
direction  where  the  island  spread  out 
before  him.  Here  an  amazing  sight  met 
his  eyes. 

The  mound  at  the  other  end  had 
become  completely  and  marvellously 
changed.  On  the  previous  day  it  had 
preserved  its  usual  shape,  but  now  it  wns 


o 
o 

I 

LL 
O 

> 

CO 

£C 

> 


30 


CORD   AND   CREESE 


lii 


'^  ] 


;t  1 


no  longer  smoothly  rounded.  On  the 
contrary  it  was  irregular,  the  northern 
end  being  still  a  sort  of  hillocic,  but  the 
middle  and  southern  end  was  flat  on  the 
surface  and  dark  in  color.  From  the 
distance  at  which  he  stood  it  looked  like 
a  rock,  around  which  the  sand  had 
accumulated,  but  which  had  been  un- 
covered by  the  violent  storm  of  the  pre- 
ceding night. 

At  that  distance  it  appeared  like  a  rock, 
but  there  was  something  in  its  shape  and 
in  its  position  which  made  it  look  like  a 
ship  which  had  been  cast  ashore.  The 
idea  was  a  startling  one,  and  he  at  once 
dismissed  it  as  absurd.  But  the  more  he 
looked  the  closer  the  resemblance  grew 
until  at  last,  unable  to  endure  this  sus- 
pense, he  hurried  off  in  that  direction. 

During  all  the  time  that  he  had  been 
on  the  island  he  had  never  been  close  to 
the  mound.  He  had  remained  for  the 
most  part  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
rock,  and  had  n-  /er  thought  that  a  bar- 
ren sand  hillock  was  worthy  of  a  visit. 
But  now  it  appeared  a  very  different 
object  in  his  eyes. 

He  walked  on  over  half  the  intervening 
distance,  and  now  the  resemblance  in- 
stead of  fading  out,  as  he  anticipated, 
grew  more  close.  It  was  still  too  far  to  be 
seen  very  distinctly ;  but  there,  even  from 
that  distance,  he  saw  the  unmistakable 
outline  of  a  ship's  hull. 

There  was  now  scarcely  any  doubt 
about  this.  There  it  lay.  Every  step 
only  made  it  more  visible.  He  walked 
more  quickly  onward,  filled  with  wonder 
and  marvelling  by  what  strange  chance 
this  vessel  could  have  reached  its  present 
position. 

There  it  lay.  It  could  not  by  any 
possibility  have  been  cast  ashore  on  the 
preceding  night.  The  mightiest  billows 
that  ever  rose  from  ocean  could  never 


have  lifted  a  ship  so  far  upon  the  shot 
To  him  it  was  certain  that  it  must  ha 
been  there  for  a  long  time,  and  that  t 
sand  had  been  heaped  around  it  by  sit 
cessive  storms. 

As  he  walked  nearer  he  regarded  mor 
closely  the  formation  of  this  western  enc 
He  saw  the  low  northern  point,  and  the 
the  cove  where  he  had  escaped  froc 
the  sea.  He  noticed  that  the  souther 
point  where  the  mound  was  appeared  i: 
be  a  sort  of  peninsula,  and  the  theory  suj 
gested  itself  to  him  by  which  he  couk 
account  for  this  wonder.  This  ship,  ht 
saw,  must  have  been  wrecked  at  som 
time  long  before  upon  this  island.  A 
the  shore  was  shallow  it  had  run  agrouiK 
and  stuck  fast  in  the  sand.  But  succei 
sive  storms  had  continued  to  beat  upoiii; 
until  the  moving  sands  which  the  waters 
were  constantly  driving  about  had 
gathered  all  around  it  higher  and  higher 
At  last,  in  the  course  of  time,  a  vast 
accumulation  had  gathered  about  tliii 
obstacle  till  a  new  bank  had  been  foniKi! 
and  joined  to  the  island  ;  and  the  winds 
had  lent  their  aid,  heaping  up  the  loost 
sand  on  high  till  all  the  ship  was  covered* 
But  last  night's  storm  had  to  some  e^  ; 
tent  undone  the  work,  and  now  the  ■ 
wreck  was  once  more  exposed. 

Brandon  was  happy  in  his  conjecture 
and  right  in  his  theory.    All  who  know 
anything   about    the    construction    ami; 
nature  of  sand  islands  such  as  this  art|; 
aware  that  the  winds  and  waters  woili| 
perpetual  changes.    The  best-known  ex- 
ample of  this    is  the   far-famed   SabltV 
Island,  which  lies  off  the  coast  of  Nova|; 
Scotia,  in  the  direct    track    of  vessels  il 
crossing  the  Atlantic  between  England  J 
and   the  United  States.    Here  there  isj 
repeated  on  a  far  larger  scale  the  work! 
which   Brandon   saw   on  Coffin   IslandJ 
Sable  Island  is  twenty   miles  long  andj 


THE    MYSTERY   OF   COFFIN   ISLAND 


31 


3ut  one  in  width— the  crest  of  a  vast 

ap  of  sand   which    rises   out  of  the 

ean's  bed.     Here  the  wildest  storms  in 

world   rage    uncontrolled,   and   the 

cpers  of  the  lighthouse  have  but  little 

clter.    Not  long  ago  an  enormous  flag- 

iiff  was  torn   from  out  its  place  and 

Irled  away    into  the    sea.      In  fierce 

srms  the  spray  drives  all  across,  and  it 

impossible  to  venture  out.    But  most 

all.  Sable   Island   is  famous  for  the 

elancholy  wrecks  that  have  taken  place 

lere.    Often  vessels  that  have  the  bad 

[rtune  to  run  aground  are  broken  up, 

It  sometimes  the  sand  gathers  about 

lem  and  covers  them  up.    There  are 

jmerous  mounds  here  which  are  known 

I  conceal  wrecked  ships.     Some  of  these 

ive  been  opened,  and  the  wreck  beneath 

IS  been  brought  to  view.    Sometimes 

ISO,  after  a  severe    gale,  these  sandy 

liounds  are  torn  away  and  the  buried 

essels  are  exposed. 

Far  away  in  Australia  Brandon  had 

leard  of  Sable  Island  from  different  sea 

aptains  who  had  been  in  the  Atlantic 

k-ade.    The  stories  which  these  men  had 

tell  were  all  largely  tinged  with  the 

jpernatural.    One  in  particular  who  had 

Men    wrecked    there,  and    had    taken 

Efuge  for  the  right  in  a  hut  built  by  the 

British  Government  for  wrecked  sailors, 

3ld  some  wild  story  about  the  apparition 

kf  a  negro,  who  waked  him  up  at  dead  of 

^ight  and  nearly  killed  him  with  horror. 

With  all  these   thoughts  in  his  mind 

kandon  approached  the  wreck,  and  at 

last  stood  close  beside  it. 

It  had  been  long  buried.    The  hull 

vas  about  two-thirds  uncovered.    A  vast 

?ap  of  sand  still  clung  to  the  bow,  but 

|he  stern  stood  out  full  in  view.     Although 

It  must  have  been  there  for  a  long  time 


the  planks  were  still  sound,  for  they 
seemed  to  have  been  preserved  from 
decay  by  the  sand.  All  the  calking,  how- 
ever, had  become  loose,  and  the  seams 
gaped  widely.  There  were  no  masts,  but 
the  lower  part  of  the  shrouds  still  re- 
mained, showing  that  the  vessel  was  a 
brig.  So  deeply  was  it  buried  in  the 
sand  that  Brandon,  from  where  he  stood, 
could  look  over  the  whole  deck,  he  him- 
self being  almost  on  a  level  with  the 
deck.  The  masts  appeared  to  have  been 
chopped  away.  The  hatchways  were 
gone.  The  hold  appeared  to  be  filled 
with  sand,  but  there  may  have  been  only 
a  layer  of  sand  concealing  something 
beneath.  Part  of  the  planking  of  the 
deck  as  well  as  most  of  the  taffrail  on 
the  other  side  had  been  carried  away. 
Astern  there  was  a  quarterdeck.  There 
was  no  skylight,  but  only  deadlights  set 
on  the  deck.  The  door  of  the  cabin  still 
remained  and  was  shut  tight. 

All  these  things  Brandon  took  in  at  a 
glance.  A  pensive  melancholy  came  over 
him,  and  a  feeling  of  pity  for  the  inani- 
mate ship  as  though  she  were  capable  of 
feeling.  By  a  natural  curiosity  he  walked 
around  to  the  stern  to  see  if  he  could  read 
her  name. 

The  stern  was  buried  deep  in  the  sand. 
He  had  to  kneel  to  read  it.  On  the  side 
nearest  him  the  letters  were  obliterated, 
but  he  saw  some  remaining  on  the  oppo- 
site side.  He  went  over  there  and  knelt 
down.  There  were  four  letters  still  legi- 
ble and  part  of  a  fifth.  These  were 
the  letters  : 

VISHN 

"Great  Heavens!"  cried  Brandon, 
starting  back— "the  Vishnu/" 


QQ 


O 

o 

f 

O 


iC 

3 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  DWELLER  IN  THE    SUNKEN    SHIP 


After  a  moment  of  honor  Brandon 
walked  away  for  a  short  distance,  and 
then,  turning,  he  looked  fixedly  at  the 
wreck  for  a  long  time. 

Could  this  be  indeed  the  ship— ///^ 
Vishnu?  By  what  marvellous  coincidence 
had  he  thus  fallen  upon  it?  It  was  in 
1828  that  the  Vishnu  sailed  from  Calcutta 
for  Manilla.  Was  it  possible  for  this 
vessel  to  be  preserved  so  long  ?  And  if 
80,  how  did  it  get  here  ? 

Yet  why  not  ?  As  to  its  preservation 
that  was  no  matter  in  itself  for  wonder. 
East  Indian  vessels  are  sometimes  built 
of  mahogany,  or  other  woods  which  last 
for  immense  periods.  Any  wood  might 
endure  for  eighteen  years  if  covered  up 
by  sand.  Besides,  this  vessel  he  recol- 
lected had  been  laden  with  staves  and 
box  shooks,  with  other  wooden  materials 
which  would  keep  it  afloat.  It  might 
have  drifted  about  these  seas  till  the 
currents  bore  it  here.  After  all  it  was 
not  so  wonderful  that  this  should  be  the 
Vishnu  of  Colonel  Despard. 

The  true  marvel  was  that  he  himself 
should  have  been  cast  ashore  here  on  the 
same  place  where  this  ship  was. 

He  stood  for  a  long  time  not  caring  to 
enter.  His  strength  had  been  worn  down 
by  the  privations  of  his  island  life  ;  his 
nerves,  usually  like  steel,  were  becoming 
unstrung  ;  his  mind  had  fallen  into  a 
morbid  state,  and  was  a  prey  to  a  thou- 
sand strange  fancies.  The  closed  doors 
of  the  cabin  stood  there  before  him,  and 


he  began  to  imagine  that  some  fright; 
spectacle  was  concealed  within. 

Perhaps  he  could  find  some  traces 
that    tragedy  of    which   he  had   heat 
Since  the  ship  had  come  here,  and  he  k 
been  cast  ashore  to  meet  it,  there  w, 
nothing  which  he  might  not  anticipate, 

A  strange  horror  came  over  him  as 
looked  at  the  cabin.  But  he  was  not  t: 
man  to  yield  to  idle  fancies.  Taking 
long  breath  he  walked  across  the  islan: 
and  then  back  again.  By  that  time  * 
had  completely  recovered,  and  the  or 
feeling  now  remaining  was  one  of  inters 
curiosity. 

This  time  he  went  up  without  hesiti 
tation,  and  climbed  on  board  the  vesst 
The  sand  was   heaped   up  astern,  tk 
masts  gone,  '^nd  the  hatchways  torn  cf 
as  has  been  said.    The  wind  which  hac 
blown    the    sand  away  had  swept  tht, 
decks  as  clean  as  though  they  had  beet 
holystoned.     Not  a  rope    or  a  spar  ci 
any    movable    of   any    kind    could    b« 
seen. 

He  walked  aft.  He  tried  the  cabi: 
door ;  it  was  wedged  fast  as  though  par 
of  the  front.  Finding  it  immovable  h 
stepped  back  and  kicked  at  it  vigorously 
A  few  sturdy  kicks  started  the  panel.  I 
gradually  yielded  and  sank  in.  Then  the 
other  panel  followed.  He  could  now 
look  in  and  see  that  the  sand  lay  inside 
to  the  depth  of  a  foot.  As  yet,  however 
he  could  not  enter.  There  was  nothinga 
else  to  do  except  to  kick  at  it  till  it  wasf 


32 


it-'  ~! 


THE    DWF,I,t,ER    IN    THK    SUNKEN    SHU' 


33 


knocked  away,  and  this  after  some 
\ict\t  labor  was  accomplished. 
He  entered.  The  cabin  was  about 
Ko  feet  square,  lighted  by  deadlights 
tlic  deck  above.  On  each  side  were 
|o  state-rooms,  probably  intended  for 
ship's  officers.  The  doors  were  all 
»n.  The  sand  had  drifted  in  here  and 
irered  the  floor  and  the  berths.  The 
)i  of  the  cabin  was  covered  with  sand 
the  depth  of  a  foot.  There  was  no 
tge  opening  through  which  it  couid 
Iter;  but  it  had  probably  penetrated 
^-oukIi  the  cracks  of  the  doorway  in  a 
jc,  impalpable  dust,  and  had  covered 
Icry  available  surface  within. 
■In  the  center  of  the  cabin  was  a  table, 
[cured  to  the  floor,  as  ships'  tables 
lays  arc;  and  immediately  over  it 
ling  the  barometer  which  was  now  all 
krroded  and  covered  with  mould  and 
|st.  A  half  dozen  stools  were  around, 
fme  lying  on  their  sides,  some  upside 
|)\vn,  and  one  standing  upright.  The 
i)or  by  which  he  had  entered  was  at  one 
]e,  on  the  other  side  was  another,  and 
ptwecn  the  two  stood  a  sofa,  the  shape 
which  was  plainly  discernible  under  the 
kiul.  Over  this  was  a  clock,  which  had 
:ked  its  last  tick. 

On  some  racks  over  the  closet  there 
rere  a  few  guns  and  swords,  intended, 
erhaps,  for  the  defensive  armament  of 
k  brig,  but  all  in  the  last  stage  of  rust 
1(1  of  decay.  Brandon  took  one  or  two 
lown,  but  they  broke  with  their  own 
^eij^ht. 

The  sand  seemed  to  have  drifted  more 
leeply  into  the  state-rooms,  for  while  its 
jepth  in  the  cabin  was  only  a  foot,  in 
lese  the  depth  was  nearly  two  feet. 
Some  of  the  bedding  projected  from  the 
berths,  but  it  was  a  mass  of  mould  and 
Irumbled  at  the  touch. 
Brandon  went  into  each  of  these  rooms 


in  succession,  and  brushed  out  the  heavy, 
wet  sand  from  the  berths.  The  rotten 
quilts  and  blankets  fell  with  the  sand  in 
matted  masses  on  the  floor,  In  each 
room  was  a  seaman's  chest.  Two  of 
these  were  covered  deeply ;  the  other 
two  but  lightly:  the  latter  were  unlocked, 
and  he  opened  the  lids.  Only  some  old 
clothes  appeared,  however,  and  these  in 
the  same  stage  of  decay  as  everything 
else.  In  one  of  them  was  a  book,  or 
rather  what  had  once  been  a  book,  but 
now  the  leaves  were  all  stuck  together, 
and  formed  one  lump  of  slime  and  mould. 
In  spite  of  his  most  careful  search  he 
had  thus  far  found  nothing  whatever 
which  could  be  of  the  slightest  benefit  to 
him  in  his  solitude  and  necessity. 

There  were  still  two  rooms  which  he 
had  not  yet  examined.  These  were  at 
the  end  of  the  cabin,  at  the  stern  of  the 
ship,  each  taking  up  one-half  of  the 
width.  The  sand  had  drifted  in  here  to 
about  the  same  depth  as  in  the  side- 
rooms.  He  entered  hist  the  one  nearest 
him,  which  was  on  the  light  side  of  the 
ship.  This  room  was  about  ten  feet 
long,  extending  from  the  middle  of  the 
ship  to  the  side,  and  about  six  feet  wide. 
A  telescope  was  the  first  thing  which  at- 
tracted his  attention.  It  lay  in  a  rack 
near  the  doorway.  He  took  it  down,  but 
it  fell  apart  at  once,  being  completely 
corroded.  In  the  middle  of  the  room 
there  was  a  compass,  which  hung  from 
the  ceiling.  But  the  iron  pivot  had 
rusted,  and  the  plate  had  fallen  down. 
Some  more  guns  and  swords  were  here, 
bui  all  rusted  like  the  others.  There  was 
a  table  at  the  wall  by  the  stern,  covered 
with  sand.  An  armchair  stood  close  by 
it,  and  opposite  this  was  a  -ouch.  At 
the  end  of  this  room  was  a  berth  which 
had  the  same  appearance  as  the  other 
berths  in  the  other  rooms.    The  quilts 


34 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


fl 


I* 


and  mattresses,  as  he  felt  them  beneath 
the  damp  sand,  were  equally  decayed. 
Too  long  had  the  ship  been  exposed  to 
the  ravages  of  time,  and  Brandon  saw 
that  to  seek  for  anything  here  which 
could  be  of  the  slightest  service  to  him- 
self was  in  the  highest  degree  useless. 

This  last  room  seemed  to  him  as 
though  it  might  have  been  the  captain's. 
That  captain  was  Cigole,  the  very  man 
who  had  flung  him  overboard.  He  had 
unconsciously  by  so  doing  sent  him  to 
the  scene  of  his  early  crime.  Was  this 
visit  to  be  all  in  vain?  Thus  far  it 
seemed  so.  Rut  might  there  not  yet  be 
something  beneath  this  sand  which 
might  satisfy  him  in  his  search? 

There  still  remained  another  room. 
Might  there  not  be  something  there  ? 

Brandon  went  back  into  the  cabin  and 
stood  looking  at  the  open  doorway  of 
that  other  room. 

He  hesitated.  Why  ?  Perhaps  it  was 
the  thought  that  here  was  his  last  chance, 
that  here  his  exploration  must  end,  and 
if  nothing  came  of  it  then  all  this  adven- 
ture would  be  in  vain.  Then  the  fantas- 
tic hopes  and  fears  which  by  turns  had 
agitated  him  would  prove  to  have  been 
absurd,  and  he,  instead  of  being  sent  by 
Fate  as  the  minister  of  vengeance,  would 
be  only  the  commonplace  victim  of  an 
everyday  accident. 

Perhaps  it  was  some  instinct  within 
him  that  made  known  to  his  mind  what 
awaited  him  there.  For  now,  as  he  stood, 
that  old  horror  camr^  upon  him  full  and 
strong.  Weakness  and  excitement  made 
his  heart  beat  and  his  ears  ring.  Now 
his  tAncy  becane  wild,  and  he  recalled 
with  [lainful  vividness  his  father's  words : 

'•  h\  the  crisis  of  your  fate  I  will  be 
neav." 

The  horrors  of  the  past  night  recurred. 
The  air  of  the  cabin  was  close  and  suffo- 


cating. There  seemed  in  that  dark  room 
before  him  some  dread  Presence,  he  knew 
not  what ;  some  Being,  who  had  uncov. 
ered  this  his  abode  and  enticed  him  hen. 

He  found  himself  rapidly  falling  into 
that  state  in  which  he  would  not  have 
been  able  either  to  advance  or  retreat, 
One  overmastering  horror  seized  him, 
Twice  his  spirit  sought  to  overcome  the 
faintness  and  weakness  of  the  flesh. 
Twice  he  stepped  resolutely  forward; 
but  each  time  he  faltered  and  recoiled, 

Here  was  no  place  for  him  to  summon 
\  p  his  strength.  He  could  bear  it  no 
longer.  He  turned  abruptly  and  rushed 
out  from  the  damp,  gloomy  place  into  the 
warm,  bright  sunshine  and  the  free  air  ol 
heaven. 

The  air  was  bright,  the  wi.id  blew  fresh. 
He  drank  in  great  draughts  of  that  deli- 
cious breeze,  and  the  salt  sea  seemed  to 
be  inhaled  at  each  breath. 

The  sun  shone  brilliantly.  The  tea 
rolled  afar  and  all  around,  and  sparkled 
before  him  under  the  sun's  rays,  with  that 
infinite  laughter,  that  av^pidfiov  yiXaa/ia  ol 
which  vEschylus  spoke  in  his  deep  love 
of  the  salt  sea.  Spei^king  parenthetically, 
it  may  be  said  that  the  only  ones  from 
among  articuiate  speaking  men  who  have 
found  fitting  epithets  for  the  sea  are  the 
old  Greek,  the  Scandinavian,  and  the 
Englishman. 

Brandon  drew  in  new  strength  and  life 
with  every  breath,  till  at  last  he  began  to 
think  once  more  of  returning. 

But  even  yet  he  feared  that  when  he 
entered  that  cabin  the  spell  would  be  on 
him.  The  thought  of  attempting  it  was 
intolfi'able.  Yet  what  was  to  be  done  ? 
To  remain  unsatisfied  was  equally  intoler- 
able. To  go  back  to  his  rock  was  not  to 
be  thought  of. 

But  an  effort  must  be  made  to  get  rid 
of  this  womanly  fear;  why  should  he 


5(lled  out  utterly. 


THE   DWELLER   IN   THE   SUNKEN   SHIP 


35 


ield  to  this  ?  Surely  there  were  other 
houghts  which  he  might  call  to  his  mind, 
here  came  over  him  the  memory  of  that 
illain  who  had  cast  him  here,  who  now 
as  exulting  in  his  fancied  success  and 
earing  back  to  his  master  the  news. 
here  came  to  him  the  thought  of  his 
ather,  and  his  wrongs,  and  his  woe. 
here  came  to  his  memory  his  father's 
ying  words  summoning  him  to  ven- 

feance.    There  came  to  him  the  thought 
f  those  who  yet  lived  and  suffered  in 
pngland,  at  the  mercy  of  a  pitiless  enemy. 
Should  he  falter  at  a  superstitious  fancy, 
he— who,  if  he  lived,  had  so  great  a  pur- 
pose? 

All  superstitious    fancy  faded   away. 
|The  thirst  for  revenge,  the  sense  of  in- 
tolerable wrong,  arose.    Fear  and  horror 
(lied  out  utterly,  destroyed  by  Vengeance. 

"  The  Presence,  then,  is  my  ally,"  he 
murmured.    "  \  will  go  and  face  it." 

And  'v.  walked  resolutely,  with  a  firm 
step,  back  into  the  cabin. 

Yet  even  then  it  needed  all  the  new- 
born resolution  which  he  had  summoned 
up,  and  all  the  thought  of  his  wrong,  to 
sustain  him  as  he  entered  that  inner  room. 
Even  then  a  sharp  thrill  passed  through 
him,  and  bodily  weakness  could  only  be 
sustained  by  the  strong,  resolute,  stub- 
born soul. 

The  room  was  about  the  size  of  the 
captain's.  There  was  a  table  against  the 
siile,  which  looked  like  a  leaf  which  could 
hang  down  in  case  of  necessity.  A  trunk 
stood  opposite  the  door,  with  the  open 
lid  projecting  upward  out  of  a  mass  of 
sand.  Upon  the  wall  there  hung  the 
collar  of  a  coat  and  part  of  t'\e  shoulders, 
the  rest  having  apparently  fallen  away 
from  decay.  The  color  of  the  coat  could 
still  be  distinguished ;  it  was  red,  and  the 
epaulets  showed  that  it  had  belonged  to 
a  British  ofRcer. 


Brandon,  on  entering,  took  in  all  these 
details  at  a  glance,  and  then  his  eyes 
were  drawn  to  the  berth  at  the  end  of 
the  room,  where  that  Thing  lay  whose 
presence  he  had  felt  and  feared,  and 
which  he  knew  by  an  internal  conviction 
must  be  here. 

There  it  awaited  him,  on  the  berth. 
Sand  had  covered  it,  like  a  coverlet,  up 
to  the  neck,  while  beyond  that  protruded 
the  head.  It  was  turned  toward  him ;  a 
bony  skeleton  head,  whose  hollow  cavities 
seemed  not  altogether  vacancy,  but 
rather  dark  eyes  which  looked  gloomily 
at  him;  dark  eyes  fixed,  motionless; 
which  had  been  thus  fixed  through  the 
long  years,  watching  wistfully  for  him, 
expecting  his  entrance  through  that 
doorway.  And  this  was  the  Being  who 
had  assisted  him  to  the  shore,  and  who 
had  thrown  off  the  covering  of  sand 
with  which  he  had  concealed  himself,  so  as 
to  bring  him  here  before  him.  Brandon 
stood  motionless,  mute.  The  face  was 
turned  toward  him— that  face  which  is 
at  once  human  and  yet  most  fright !ul, 
iince  it  is  the  face  of  Death — the  face  of 
a  skeleton.  The  jaws  had  fallen  apart, 
and  that  fearful  grin  which  is  fixed  on  the 
fleshless  face  here  seemed  like  an  effort 
at  a  smile  of  welcome. 

The  hair  still  clung  to  that  head,  and 
hung  down  over  the  fleshless  forehead, 
giving  it  more  tliC  appearance  of  Death 
in  life,  and  lending  a  new  horror  to  that 
which  already  pervaded  this  Dweller  in 
the  Ship. 

"  The  nightmare  Life-in-Death  was  he, 
That  thicks  men's  blood  with  oold." 

Brandon  stood  while  his  blood  ran 
chill,  and  his  breath  came  fast. 

If  that  Form  had  suddenly  thrown  off 
its  sandy  coverlet  and  risen  to  his  feet, 
and  advanced  with  extended   hand    to 


o 
o 

C3C 


o 


*Z!ll 


36 


CORD   AND   CREESE 


1  i  i ' 


meet  him,  he  would  not  have  been  sur- 
prised, nor  would  he  have  been  one  whit 
more  horror-stricken. 

Biandon  stood  fixed.  He  could  not 
move.  He  was  like  one  in  a  nightmare. 
His  limbs  seemed  rigid.  A  spell  was 
upon  him.  His  eyes  seemed  to  fasten 
themselves  on  the  hollow  cavities  of  the 
Form  before  him.  But  under  that  tre- 
mendous pressure  he  did  not  altogether 
sink.  Slowly  his  spirit  rose;  a  thought 
of  flight  came,  but  it  was  instantly  re- 
jected. The  next  moment  he  drew  a 
long  breath.  "  I'm  an  infernal  fool  and 
coward,"  he  muttered.  He  took  three 
steps  forward  and  stood  beside  the  Figure. 
He  laid  his  hand  firmly  upon  the  head ;  the 
hair  fell  off  at  his  touch.  "  Poor  devil," 
he  said, "  I'll  bury  your  bones  at  any  rate." 
The  spell  was  broken,  and  Brandon  was 
himself  again. 

Once  more  Brandon  walked  out  into 
the  open  air,  but  this  time  there  was  not 
a  vestige  of  horror  left.  He  had  encoun- 
tered what  he  dreaded,  and  it  was  now 
in  his  eyes  only  a  mass  of  bones.  Yet 
there  was  much  to  think  of,  and  ihe 
struggle  which  had  raged  wiihin  him  had 
exhausted  him. 

The  sea  breeze  played  about  him  and 
soon  restored  his  strength.  What  next 
to  do  was  the  question,  and  after  some 
deliberation  he  decided  at  once  to  remove 
the  skeleton  and  bury  it. 

A  flat  board  which  had  served  as  a 
shelf  supplied  him  with  an  easy  way  of 
turning  up  the  sand.  Occupation  was 
pleasant,  and  in  an  hour  or  two  he  had 
scooped  out  a  place  large  enough  for  the 
purpose  whii  he  had  in  view.  He  then 
went  back  into  the  inner  cabin. 

Taking  his  board  he  removed  carefully 
the  sand  which  had  covered  the  skeleton. 
The  clothes  came  away  with  it.  As  he 
moved  his  board  along  it  struck  some- 


thing hard.  He  could  not  see  in  that  dii; 
light  wlictt  it  was,  so  he  reached  downlil 
hand  and  grasped  it.  ; 

It  was  something  which  the  fingerso 
the  skeleton  also  encircled,  for  his  ox 
hand  as  he  grasped  it  touched  thoi 
fingers.  Drawing  it  forth  he  perceivtl 
that  it  was  a  common  junk  bottle  tighitf 
corked.  ^ 

There  seemed  a  ghastly  comicality  i 
such  a  thing  as  this,  that  this  latel 
dreaded  Being  should  be  nothing  mor;' 
than  a  common  skeleton,  and  that  lit 
should  be  discovered  in  this  bed  of  horroi; 
doing  nothing  more  dignified  thi 
clutching  a  junk  bottle  like  a  sleepiii|'^ 
drunkard.  Brandon  smiled  faintly 
the  idea ;  and  then  thinking  that,  if  t1 
liquor  were  good,  it  at  least  would 
welcome  to  him  in  his  present  situatioi 
he  walked  out  upon  the  deck,  intendinj 
to  open  it  and  test  its  contents.  So  hi| 
sat  down,  and,  taking  his  knife, 
pushed  the  cork  in.  Then  he  smelled  tk 
supposed  liquor  to  see  what  it  might  be, 
There  was  only  a  musty  odor.  He 
looked  in.  The  bottle  appeared  to  be|; 
filled  with  paper.  Then  the  whole  truth 
flashed  upon  his  mind.  He  struck  the 
bottle  upon  the  deck.  It  broke  to  atoms, 
and  there  lay  a  scroll  of  paper  covered 
with  writing. 

He  seized  it  eagerly,  and  was  about 
opening  it  to  read  what  was  written  when 
he  noticed  something  else  that  also  had 
fallen  from  the  bottle.  ' 

It  was  a  cord  about  two  yards  in  length 
made  of  the  entrail  of  some  animal,  and 
still  as  strong  and  as  flexible  as  when  it 
was  first  made.  He  iook  it  up  carefully, 
wondering  v.hy  such  a  thing  as  this 
should  have  Keen  so  carefully  sealed  up 
and  p  eserved  when  so  many  other  things 
had  been  neglected. 

Th^  cord,  on  a  close  examination,  pre- 


Inted  nothing 

|e  fact  that,  thoi 

)  have  been  not 

Iry  peculiar  m 

Iraiuls.    The 

ten  to  give  to 

Irength  togethei 

bndon  had  h 

lalays  and    Hi 

]id   this   seeme 

Ihich  he  had  r 

I  At  one  end  of 

ronze  about  tl 

garble,  to  which 

a  most  pecu 

■self  was  intend 


"Adrift 

Whoever 

bat  I,  Lionel  D 

|7th  Regiment,  1 

Dul  conspiracy  ] 

he  captain  and 

|ind  especially  b 

•■  i'xpecting 
^drif .  helplessl) 
kiul  waves,  I  sit 
|o  write  all  th 
pair.    I  will  en 
pottle  and  fling 
}od  that  he  ms 
|hose  who  ma) 
vords,  so  that 
iind  bring  the 
bver  finds  this 


MANUSCRIPT    FOUND    IN    A    BOTTLE 


37 


B  in  that  di; 
led  down  h 

he  fingers  c 
for  his  o\r 
jched  thoi 
le  perceivt 
)0ttle  tig  111 

omicality :' 

this  lateli 
ithing  mor; 
md  that  k 
•ed  of  horro! 
lified     tha; 

a  sleepinj; 

faintly  ^ 
that,  if  th 
t  would  h. 
It  situatiori 
k,  intendinji 
nts.    So  hi; 

knife,  k'l 
■  smelled  tht[ 
it  might  bej 
odor.  Ht 
iared  to  be 
whole  trutli 
struck  the 
ce  to  atonisj 
)er  covered 

was  about| 
ritten  when 
li  also  hadi 

Is  in  lengtbi 
minimal,  andl 
as  when  itf 
p  carefully, 
ng  as  this! 
y  sealed  up  I 
)ther  things] 

nation,  pre* 


Inted  nothing  very  remarkable  except 
|e  fact  that,  though  very  thin,  it  appeared 

have  been  not  twisted  but  plaited  in  a 
try  peculiar  manner  out  of  many  fine 

rands.  The  intention  had  evidently 
ten  to  give  to  it  the  utmost  possible 
[rength  together  with  the  smallest  size, 
(randon  had  heard  of  cords  used  by 
plays  and  Hindus  for  assassination, 
[id  this  seemed  like  the  description 
Ihich  he  had  read  of  them. 

At  one  end  of  the  cord  was  a  piece  of 

^onze  about  the    size    of  a    common 

garble,  to  which  the  cord  was  attached 

a  most  peculiar  knot.     The  bronze 

Iself  was  intended  to  represent  the  head 


of  some  Hindu  idol,  the  grotesque  fe- 
rocity of  its  features,  and  the  hideous 
grimace  of  the  mouth  being  exactly  like 
what  one  may  see  in  the  images  of  Mother 
Kali  or  Bowhani. 

At  once  the  cord  associated  itself  in  his 
mind  with  the  horrors  which  he  had  heard 
of  as  having  been  perpetrated  in  the 
names  of  these  frightful  deities,  and  it 
st-emed  now  to  be  more  than  a  common 
one.  He  carefully  wound  it  up,  placed 
It  ;n  hb  pojket,  and  prepared  to  examine 
the  manuscript. 

The  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens,  the  sea 
breeze  still  blew  freshly,  while  Brandon, 
opening  the  manuscript,  began  to  read. 


CHAPTER  VH 


MANUSCRIPT   FOUND   IN   A   BOTTLE 


"Brig  'Vishnu,' 
"Adrift  in  the  Chinese  Sea. 
"July  lo,  1828. 

"  Whoever  finds  this  let  him  know 

uiat  I,  Lionel  Despard,  Colonel  of  H.  M. 

|7th  Regiment,  have  been  the  victim  of  a 

Dul  conspiracy  performed  against  me  by 

le  captain  and  crew  of  the  brig  Vt'shnu, 
^nd  especially  by  my  servant,  John  Potts, 
i'xpecting  at  any  time  to  perish, 
kdrif .  helplessly,  at  the  mercy  of  winds 
knd  waves,  I  sit  down  now  before  I  die, 
lo  write  all  the  circumstances  of  this 
Affair.  I  will  enclose  the  manuscript  in  a 
bottle  and  fling  it  into  the  sea,  trusting  in 
}od  that  he  may  cause  it  to  be  borne  to 
[hose  who  may  be  enabled  to  read  my 
vords,  so  that  they  may  know  my  fate 
bd  bring  the  guilty  to  justice.  Who- 
ever finds  this  let  him,  if  possible,  have 


it  sent  to  my  friend  Ralph  Brandon,  of 
Brandon  Hall,  Devonshire,  England,  who 
will  do  more  than  any  other  man  to  cause 
justice  to  have  its  due. 

*  To  further  the  ends  of  justice  and  to 
satisfy  the  desires  of  my  friends,  I  will 
write  an  account  of  the  whole  case. 

"  III  the  name  of  God,  I  declare  that 
John  Potts  is  guilty  of  my  death.  He  was 
my  servant.  I  first  found  him  in  India 
under  very  remarkable  circumstances. 

"  It  was  in  the  year  1826.  The 
Government  was  engaged  in  an  effort 
to  put  down  bands  of  assassins  by  whom 
the  most  terrific  atrocities  h:;d  been  com- 
mitted, and  I  was  appointed  to  conduct 
the  work  in  the  district  of  Agra. 

"  The  Thuggee  society  is  still  a 
mystery,  though  its  nature  may  yet  be 
revealed  if  they  can  ouiy  capture  the 


CQ 


O 

O 

r 

iXl 


< 


LL, 
O 

■MHMMMr 

CO 

cc 


viSa 


J-  l( 


Il  •' 


I  i  I! 


^:li:'i   ' 


!i;:i: 


38 

chief*  and  make  him  confess.  As  yet 
it  is  not  fully  known,  and  though  I  have 
heard  much  which  I  have  reported  to 
the  Government,  yet  I  am  slow  to  believe 
that  any  human  beings  can  actually 
practice  what  I  have  heard. 

"  The  assassins  whom  I  was  pursuing 
eluded  our  pursuit  with  marvellous  agility 
and  cunning,  but  one  by  one  we  captured 
them,  and  punished  them  summarily. 
At  last  we  surrounded  a  band  of  Thugs, 
and  to  our  amazement  found  among 
them  a  European  and  a  small  boy.  At 
our  attack  the  Hindus  made  a  desperate 
resistance,  and  killed  themselves  rather 
than  fall  into  our  hands ;  but  the  Euro- 
pean, leading  forward  the  little  boy,  fell 
on  his  knees  and  implored  us  to  save  him. 

"  I  had  heard  that  an  Englishman  had 
joined  these  wretches,  and  at  first  thought 
that  this  was  the  man ;  so,  desirous  of 
capturing  him,  I  ordered  my  men,  when- 
ever they  found  him,  to  spare  his  life  if 
possible.  This  man  was  at  once  seized 
and  brought  before  me. 

"  He  hsd  a  piteous  story  to  tell.  He 
snid  that  his  name  was  John  Potts,  that 
he  belonged  to  Southampton,  and  had 
been  in  India  a  year.  He  had  come  to 
Agra  to  look  out  for  employ  as  a  servant, 
and  had  been  caught  by  the  Thugs. 
They  offered  to  spare  his  life  if  he  would 
join  them.  According  to  him  they 
always  make  this  offer.  If  it  had  only 
been  himself  that  was  concerned  he  said 
that  he  would  have  died  a  hundred  times 
rather  than  have  accepted ;  but  his  little 
boy  was  with  him,  and  to  save  his  life  he 
consented,  hoping  that  somehow  or  other 
he  might  escape.  They  then  received 
him  with  some  horrible  ceremonies,  and 
marked  on  his  arm  and  on  the  arm  of  his 

*  The  chief  was  captured  in  1830,  and  by  his  con- 
fession all  the  atrocious  system  of  Thuggee  was  re- 
vealed. 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


son,  on  the  inner  part  of  the  right  elboi 
the  name  of  Bowhani  in  Hindu  charai- 
ters.  Potts  showed  me  his  arm  ac, 
that  of  his  son  in  proof  of  this. 

"  He  had  been  with  them,  according!; 
his  own  account,  about  three  montit 
and  his  life  had   been  one  continuoc 
horror.    He  had   picked  up  enough  n. 
their  language    to    conjecture  to  sou: 
extent  the  nature  of  their  belief,  whid 
he  asserted,  would  be  most   importr 
information  for  the    Government.    Tk 
Thugs  had  treated  him  very  kindly,  ((• 
they  looked  upon  him  as  one  of  therrr 
selves,  and  they  are  all  very  humane  an:r 
affectionate  to  one  another.     His  vvors 
fear  had  been  that  they  would  compt; 
him  to  do  murder ;  and  he  would  hai; 
died,  he  declared,  rather  than  consent 
I  but,  fortunately,  he  was    spared.    Tkl, 
reason  of  this,  he  said,  was  because  thttf 
always  do  their  murder  by  stranglinj 
since  the  shedding  of  blood  is  not  accept! 
able  to  their  divinity.    He  could  not  dt' 
this,    for    it    requires    great    dexteritj 
Almost  all  their  strangling  is  done  by: 
thin,  strong  cord,  curiously  twisted,  abcr 
six  feet  in  length,  with  a  weight  at  oti 
end,  generally  carved  so  as  to  represer 
the  face  of  Bowhani.    This  they  thro? 
with  a  peculiar  jerk  around  the  neck  c 
their  victim.    The  weight  swings  the  con 
round  and  round,  while    the    strangle 
pulls  at  the  other  end,  and  death  is  ine\i 
table.    His  hands,  he  said,  were  coarsi 
and   r^lumsy,  unlike  the  delicate  Hindi 
hands  ;  and  so,  although  they  forced  hin 
to  practice  incessantly,  he  could  not  learnj 
He  said  nothing  about  the  boy,  but,  fioir; 
what   T  saw  of  that    boy  afterward,  1 
believe  that  nature  created  him  especial!; 
to  be  a  Thug,  and  have  no  doubt  that  litj 
learned  then  to  wield  the  cord  with  as 
much  dexterity  as  the  best  strangler  oi| 
them  all. 


His  associat 
Im  much  of  t 
jme  of  their  I 
that  he    said 
fhuggee  societ 
m,  a  frightfi 
|)y  is  the  sight 
jhose  who  are 
lumon  victims 
ling  of  blood,  i 
le  more  of  a 
lotive  for  this 
arely  plunder, 
'he  reward   is 
ereafter,   whi( 
hem  ;  a  life  li 
neclan  Paradist 
oys  to  be    pc 
latiety.    Destn 
;ind  of  duty,  b 
laturally  perha 
Vs  the  hunter 
larried  away  b; 
husiasm  of  the 
iger,  feels  the 
md  displaying  ( 
)assion  is  felt  t 
or  it  is  man  tl 
kstroyed.    He 
the  hunter  of  nr 
cunning,  fores 
All  this  I  aften 
tion  of  the  Go' 
^  results. 

Potts  decla 
had  been  on  t 
escape,  but  so 
of  these  wret( 
senses,  sharpe 
long  practice,  t 
less.  He  had 
and  concluded 
jthe  efforts  of  tl 
[these  assassin; 

[last  saved  him 
4 


; 


MANUSCRIPT    FOUND    IN    A    BOTTLE 


39 


i  right  elbo. 

indu  charai. 

lis  arm  at; 

f  this. 

according!; 

iree  momfc 
continues 
p  enough  c 
ure  to  son* 
jeHef,  whid 
St  importar 
nment.  Tl- 
y  kindly,  fc 
jne  of  theiTr; 

humane  ac:^ 

His  vvorr; 

ould  comp"? 

would  hai' 
lan  consent 
>pared.  Tk 
because  thf 
stranglinj 
s  not  accipii 
could  not  dt' 
It  dexteritj 
is  done  byi 
visted,  abcr 
weight  at  oni 
to  represer 

they  tliio» 
the  neck  c 
ngs  the  con 
le    strangle; 
Jath  is  ine\> 
were  coarsii 
icate   Hindi' 
r  forced  hiir 
lid  not  learn 
y,  but,  fi  on 
ifterward,  1 
m  especial! 
)ubt  that  lifj 
)rd  with  as 
strangler 


His  association  with  them  had  shown 

Sm  much  of  their  ordinary  habits  and 

me  of  their  beliefs.     I  gathered  from 

hat  he    said   that   the    basis    of    the 

huggee  society  is  the  worship  of  Bow- 

(ani,  a  frightful  demon,  whose  highest 

y  is  the  sight  of  death  or  dead  bodies. 

hose  who  are  her  disciples  must  offer  up 

uman  victims  killed  without  the  shed- 

ing  of  blood,  and  the  more  he  can  kill 

e  more  of  a  saint  he   becomes.    The 

otive  for  this  is  never  gain,  for  they 

rely  plunder,  but  purely  religious  zeal. 

he  reward  is  an   immortality   of  bliss 

ereafter,    which    Bowhani    will  secure 

em ;  a  life  like  that  of  the   Moham- 

edan  Paradise,  where  there  are  material 

ys  to  be    possessed   forever    without 

latiety.    Destruction,  which  begins  as  a 

ind  of  duty,  becomes  also  at  last,  and 

aturally  perhaps,  an  absorbing  passion. 

s  the  hunter  in  pursuing  his  prey  is 

arried  away  by  excitement  and  the  en- 

husiasm  of  the  chase,  or,  in  hunting  the 

iger,  feels  the  delight  of  braving  danger 

nd  displaying  courage,  so  here  that  same 

assion  is  felt  to  an  extraordinary  degree, 

or  it  is  man  that  must  be  pursued  and 

estroyed.    Here,  in  addition  to  courage, 

he  hunter  of  man  must  call  into  exercise 

unning,  foresight,  eloquence,   intrigue. 

11  this  I  afterward  brought  to  the  atten- 

ion  of  the  Government  with  very  good 

esults. 

"  Potts  declared  that  night  and  day  he 
'had  been  on  the  watch  for  a  chance  to 
iescape,  but  so  infernal  was  the  cunning 
of  these  wretches,  and  so  quick  their 
senses,  sharpened  as  they  had  been  by 
long  practice,  that  success  became  hope- 
less. He  had  fallen  into  deep  dejection, 
and  concluded  that  his  only  hope  lay  in 
the  efforts  of  the  Government  to  put  down 
I  these  assassins.  Our  appearance  had  at 
I  last  saved  him. 

■^       4 


"  Neither  I,  nor  any  of  my  men,  nor 
any  Englishman  who  heard  this  story, 
doubted  for  an  instant  the  truth  of  every 
word.  All  the  newspapers  mentioned 
with  delight  the  fact  that  an  English- 
man and  his  son  had  been  rescued. 
Pity  was  felt  for  that  father  who,  for  his 
son's  sake,  had  consented  to  dwell  amid 
scenes  of  terror,  and  sympathy  for  the 
anguish  that  he  must  have  endured 
during  that  terrific  captivity.  A  thrill  of 
horror  passed  through  all  our  Anglo- 
Indian  society  at  the  revelation  which  he 
made  about  Thuggee  ;  and  so  great  was 
the  feeling  in  his  favor  that  a  handsome 
subscription  was  made  up  for  him  by 
the  officers  at  Agra. 

"  For  my  part  I  believed  in  him  most 
implicitly,  and,  as  I  saw  him  to  be  un- 
usually clever,  I  engaged  him  at  once  to 
be  my  servant.  He  stayed  with  me,  and 
every  month  won  more  and  more  of  my 
confidence.  He  had  a  good  head  for 
business.  Matters  of  considerable  deli- 
cacy which  I  entrusted  to  him  were  well 
performed,  and  at  last  I  thought  it  the 
most  fortunate  circumstance  in  my  Indian 
life  that  I  had  found  such  a  man. 

**  After  about  three  years  he  expressed 
a  wish  to  go  to  England  for  the  sake  of 
his  son.  He  thought  India  a  bad  place 
for  a  boy,  and  wished  to  try  and  start  in 
some  business  in  his  native  land  for  his 
son's  sake. 

'*  That  boy  had  always  been  my  detes- 
tation— a  crafty,  stealthy,  wily,  malicious 
little  demon,  who  was  a  perfect  Thug  in 
his  nature,  without  any  religious  basis  to 
his  Thuggeeism.  I  pitied  Potts  for  being 
the  father  of  such  a  son.  I  could  not  let 
the  little  devil  live  in  my  house ;  his 
cruelty  to  animals,  which  he  delighted  to 
torture,  his  thieving  propensities,  and  nis 
infernal  deceit  were  all  so  intolerable. 
He  was  not  more  than  twelve,  but  he 


03 


O 

o 


cc 


€.C 


40 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


I'. ,;' 


was  older  in  iniquity  than  many  a  gray- 
headed  villain.  To  oblige  Potts,  whom 
I  still  trusted  implicitly,  1  wrote  to  my 
old  friend  Ralph  Brandon,  of  Brandon 
Hall,  Devonshire,  requesting  him  to  do 
what  he  could  for  so  deserving  a  man. 

"  Just  about  this  time  an  event  occurred 
which  has  brought  me  to  this. 

"  My  sweet  wife  had  been  ill  for  two 
yrars.  I  had  obtained  a  faithful  nurse  in 
the  person  of  a  Mrs.  Compton,  a  poor 
creature,  but  gentle  and  affectionate,  for 
whom  my  dear  love's  sympathy  had  been 
excited.  No  one  could  have  been  more 
faithful  than  Mrs.  Compton,  and  I  sent 
my  darling  to  the  hill  station  at  Assurabad 
in  hopes  that  the  cooler  air  might  rein- 
vigorate  her. 

"  She  died.  It  is  only  a  month  or  two 
since  that  frightful  blow  fell  and  crushed 
me.  To  think  of  it  overwhelms  me — to 
write  of  it  is  impossible. 

"  I  could  think  of  nothing  but  to  fly 
/rom  my  unendurable  grief.  I  wished  to 
get  away  from  India  anywhere.  Before 
the  blow  crushed  me  I  hoped  that  I 
might  carry  my  darling  to  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope,  and  therefore  I  remitted 
there  a  large  sum  ;  but  after  she  left  me  I 
cared  not  where  I  went,  and  finding  that 
a  vessel  was  going  to  Manilla  I  decided 
to  go  there. 

"  It  was  Potts  who  found  out  this,  I 
now  know  that  he  engaged  the  vessel, 
put  the  crew  on  board,  who  were  all 
creatures  of  his  own,  and  took  the  route 
to  Manilla  for  the  sake  of  carrying  out 
his  designs  on  me.  To  give  everything 
a  fair  appearance  the  vessel  was  laden 
with  stores  and  things  of  that  sort,  for 
which  there  was  a  demand  at  Manilla. 
It  wrs  with  the  most  perfect  indifference 
that  i  embarked.  I  cared  not  where  I 
went,  and  hoped  that  the  novelty  of  the 
sea  voyage  might  benefit  me> 


"  The  captain  was  an  Italian  namej 
Cigole,  a  low-browed,  evil-faced  villain 
The  mate  was  named  Clark.  Then 
were  three  Lascars,  ./ho  formed  the  smai 
crew.  Potts  came  with  me,  and  also  at 
old  servant  of  mine,  a  Malay,  whost 
life  I  had  saved  years  before.  His  natnt 
was  Uracao.  It  struck  me  that  tkt 
crew  was  a  small  one,  but  I  thought  tlit 
captain  knew  his  business  better  than  I, 
and  so  I  gave  myself  no  concern. 

"After  we  embarked  Potts'  mannti 
Changed  very  greatly.  I  remember  this 
now,  though  I  did  not  notice  it  at  tht 
time,  for  I  was  almost  in  a  kind  of  stupor, 
He  was  particularly  insolent  to  Uracao 
I  remember  once  thinking  indifferentlj 
that  Potts  would  have  ^o  be  repri 
manded,  or  kicked,  or  something  of  thai 
sort,  but  was  not  capable  of  any  action 

"  Uracao  had  for  years  slept  in  fion; 
of  my  door  when  at  home,  and  whet 
travelling,  in  the  same  room.  Ik 
always  waked  at  the  slightest  noise. 
He  regarded  his  life  as  mine,  and 
thought  that  he  was  bound  to  watd 
over  me  till  I  died.  Although  this 
was  often  inconvenient,  yet  it  would 
have  broken  the  affectionate  fellow's 
heart  if  I  had  forbidden  it,  so  it  went  on. 
Potts  made  an  effort  to  induce  him  to 
sleep  forward  among  the  Lascars,  but 
though  Uracao  had  borne  insolence 
from  him  without  a  murmur,  this  pro- 
posal made  his  eyes  kindle  with  a 
menacing  fire  which  silenced  the  other  [ 
into  fear. 

"The  passage  was  a  quick  one,  and; 
at  last  we  were  only  a  few  days'  sail 
from  Manilla.    Now  our  quiet  came  to 
an  end.    One  night  I  was  awakened  u] 
a    tremendous    struggle    in    my    cabin. 
Starting  up,  I  saw  in  the  gloom  twoi 
figures  struggling   desperately.    It  was  I 
impossible   to  see   who   they  were*   li 


;s 


iiang  frm  th 
Sstois.    They 
What  the 
[ercely. 

No  answer 
loment  there 
nil  one  of  the 
;hoin  he  helc 
rom  niy  berth, 
ut  in  the  cab 

" '  You  can't 

recognized  a 
listois.' 

" '  He  hasn't," 
Potts  took  thei 

"'Who  are 
he  man  who 
[own. 

"'Uracao,'  s; 
ir  you're  lost  I 
What  the 
;ried  angrily, 
I  suspicion. 

" '  Feel  aroun 

"  Hastily  1  pt 
)f  horror  pass 
he  Thuggee  C( 

" '  Who  is  thi 

lan  who  had  fi 

'  Potts,'  crie 

ire  under  youi 

:ried  to  Strang 

he   Lascars   . 

ark  on  their  i 
ani  in  Hindu  I 
All  the  tru 
cross  me.  1 1 
:o  look  under 
stooped  there 
:  "'Help!  CI 
voice  of  Potts. 
mV 

^  "At  this  a  tu 
allien.    Uracao 
ose  to  his  feet, 


MANUSCRIPT    FOUND   IN    A    BOTTLE 


41 


ilian  name^ 
iced  villain 
rk.  Then 
ed  the  smi 
and  also  at 
ilay,  whosf 

His  naint 
e  that  tilt 
thought  ttt 
tter  than  1 
ern. 

tts'  mannti 
lember  this 
:e  it  at  tht 
id  of  stupor 
to  Uracao. 
indifferentlj 

be    repri' 

ling  of  thai 

any  action, 

;pt  in  fion; 

and  when 
room.  He 
itest  noise. 
mine,  and 
1  to  watcli 
hough  this 
t  it  would 
ite  fellow's 
it  went  on, 
uce  him  to 
.ascars,  bul 
I  insolence 
r,  this  pro- 
lie  with  a 
1  the  other' 

:k  one,  arid  I 
days'  sail 
et  came  to 
krakened  bj,. 
my    cabin,  ■. 
gloom  two 
ty.    It  was 
y  were,   ll 


[ji 


; 


anng  frcn  the  berth  and  felt  for  my 
iistols.    They  were  gone. 
" '  What  the  devil  is  this  ?  '  I  roared 

lercely. 

No   answer    came  ;    but    the    next 

oment  there  was  a  tremendous  fall, 
nd  one  of  the  men  clung  to  the  other, 
^honi  he  held  downward.  I  sprang 
roin  my  berth.  There  were  low  voices 
ut  in  the  cabin. 

" '  You  can't,'  said  one  voice,  which 

recognized  as  Clark's.  *  He  has  his 
iistols.' 

" '  He  hasn't,'  said  the  voice  of  Cigole. 
Potts  took  them  away.    He's  unarmed.' 

"'Who  are  you?'  I  cried,  grasping 
he  man  who  was  holding  the  other 
own. 

" '  Uracao,'  said  he.  '  Get  your  pistols 
n  you're  lost ! ' 

What  the  devil  is  the  matter?'  I 
:ried  angrily,  for   I   had   not  even  yet 

suspicion. 

"  '  Feel  around  your  neck,'  said  he. 

"  Hastily  I  put  my  hand  up.  A  thrill 
)f  horror  passed  through  me.  It  was 
he  Thuggee  cord. 

" '  Who  is  this  ? '  I  cried,  grasping  the 
nan  who  had  fallen. 

Potts,'  cried  Uracao.    '  Your  pistols 
re  under  your  berth.     Quick !     Potts 
ried  to  strangle  you.    There's  a  plot. 
he   Lascars  are    Thugs.    I  saw    the 

ark  on  their  arms,  the  name  of  Bow- 
ani  in  Hindu  letters.' 

All  the  truth  now  seemed  to  flash 
cross  me.    I  leaped  back  to  the  berth 
0  look  under  it  for  my  pistols.     As  I 
%tooped  there  was  a  rush  behind  me. 

•"Help!    Clark!    quick!'    cried    the 

oice  of  Potts.    '  This  devil's  strangling 
r 

"  At  this  a  tumult  arose  round  the  two 

en.    Uracao  was  dragged  off.    Potts 

ose  to  his  feet,    At  that  moment  I  found 


J 


my  pistols.  I  could  not  distinguish  per- 
sons, but  I  ran  the  risk  and  fired.  A 
sharp  cry  followed.  Somebody  was 
wounded. 

"'Damn  him!'  cried  Potts,  'he's  got 
the  pistols.' 

"  The  next  moment  they  had  all  rushed 
out,  dragging  Uracao  with  them.  The 
door  was  drawn  to  violently  with  a  bang 
and  fastened  on  the  outside.  They  had 
captured  the  only  man  who  could  help 
me,  and  I  was  a  prisoner  at  the  mercy  of 
these  miscreants. 

"  All  the  remainder  of  the  night  and 
until  the  following  morning  I  heard  noises 
and  trampling  to  and  fro,  but  had  no  idea 
whatever  of  what  was  going  on.  I  felt 
indignation  at  the  treachery  of  Potts,  who, 
I  now  perceived,  had  deceived  me  all 
along,  but  had  no  fear  whatever  of  any- 
thing that  might  happen.  Death  was 
rather  grateful  than  otherwise.  Still  I 
determined  to  sell  my  life  as  dearly  as 
possible,  and,  loading  my  pistol  once 
more,  I  waited  for  them  to  come.  The 
only  anxiety  which  I  felt  was  about  my 
poor  faithful  Malay. 

"  But  time  passed,  and  at  last  all  was 
still.  There  was  no  sound  either  of 
voices  or  of  footsteps.  I  waited  for  what 
seemed  hours  in  impatience,  until  finally 
I  could  endure  it  no  longer.  I  was  not 
going  to  die  like  a  dog,  but  determined 
at  all  hazards  to  go  out  armed,  face 
them,  and  meet  my  doom  at  once. 

"  A  few  vigorous  kicks  at  the  door 
broke  it  open  and  I  walked  out.  There 
was  no  one  in  the  cabin.  I  went  out  on 
deck.  There  was  no  one  there.  I  saw 
it  all.  I  was  deserted.  Moreover,  the 
brig  had  settled  down  so  low  in  the 
water  that  the  sea  was  up  to  her  gun- 
wales. I  looked  out  over  the  ocean  to 
see  if  I  could  perceive  any  trace  of  them 
— Potts  and  the  rest.    I  saw  nothing. 


CQ 


O 

o 

cc 

u., 
o 


l.U 


4« 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


They  must  have  left  long  before.  A 
faint  smoke  in  the  hatchway  attracted  my 
attention.  Looking  there,  I  perceived 
that  it  had  been  burned  av^ray.  The 
villains  had  evidently  tried  to  scuttle  the 
brig,  and  then,  to  make  doubly  sure,  had 
kindled  a  fire  in  the  cargo,  thinking  that 
the  wooden  materials  of  which  it  was 
composed  would  kindle  readily.  But  the 
water  had  rushed  in  too  rapidly  for  the 
flames  to  spread ;  nevertheless,  the  water 
was  not  able  to  do  its  work,  for  the  wood 
cargo  kept  the  brig  afloat.  She  was 
water-logged,  but  still  floating. 

"  The  masts  and  shrouds  were  all  cut 
away.  The  vessel  was  now  little  better 
than  a  raft,  and  was  drifting  at  the  mercy 
of  the  ocean  currents.  For  my  part  I 
did  not  much  care.  I  had  no  desire  to 
go  to  Manilla  or  anywhere  else ;  and  the 
love  of  life  which  is  usually  so  strong  did 
not  exist.  I  should  have  preferred  to 
have  been  killed  or  drowned  at  once. 
InF*e;^d  of  that  I   lived. 

*' w.ie  died  on  June  15.  It  was  the  2d 
of  July  when  this  occurred  which  I  have 
narrated.  It  is  now  the  loth.  For  a  week 
I  have  been  drifting  I  know  not  where. 
I  have  seen  no  land.  There  are  enough 
provisions  and  water  on  board  to  sustain 
me  for  months.  The  weather  has  been 
fine  thus  far. 

"  I  have  written  this  with  the  wish  that 
whoever  may  find  it  will  send  it  to  Ralph 
Brandon,  Esq.,  of  Brandon  Hall,  Devon- 
shire, that  he  may  see  that  justice  is  done 
to  Potts,  and  the  rest  of  the  conspirators. 
Let  him  also  try,  if  it  be  not  too  late,  to 
save  Uracao.  If  this  fall  into  the  hands 
of  anyone  going  to  England  let  it  be  de- 
livered to  him  as  above,  b'ji  if  the  finder 
be  going  to  India  let  him  place  it  in  the 
hands  of  the  Governor  General ;  if  to 
China  or  any  other  place,  let  him  give  it 
to  the  authorities,  enjoining  then.,  how- 


ever, after  using  it,  to  send  it  to  Ralp , 
Brandon  as  above. 

"  It  will  be  seen  by  this  that  John  Toti ; 
was  in  connection  with  the  Thugs,  prot!.| 
ably  for  the  sake  of  plundering  thost 
whom  they  murdered  ;  that  he  conspire j 
against  me  and  tried  to  kill  me ;  and  tha 
he  has  wrought  my  death  (for  I  expect  t 
die).     An  examination  of  my  desk  shows 
that  he  has  taken  papers  and  bank  bjlli 
to  the  amount  of  four  thousand  pounds 
with  him.     It  was  this,  no  doubt,  that  in 
duced  him  to  make  this  attempt  againsi' 
me. 

"  I  desire  also  hereby  to  appoint  Heiin 
Thornton,  Sen.,  Esq,,  of  Holby  Pembroke 
Solicitor,  my  executor  and  the  guanliar; 
of  my  son  Courtenay,  to  whom  I  bequeatt 
a  father's  blessing  and  all  that  I  possess 
Let  him  try  to  secure  my  money  in  Cape 
Town  for  my  boy,  and,  if  possible,  to  re. 
gain  for  him  the  four  thousand  pounds 
which  Potts  has  carried  off. 

"  Along  with  this  manuscript  I  also  en- 
close the  strangling  cord. 

"  May  God  have  mercy  upon  my  soul' 
Amen. 

"  Lionel  Despard." 

"July  28. — Since  I  wrote  this  thert 
has  been  a  series  of  tremendous  storms, 
The  weather  has  cleared  up  again.  I 
have  seen  no  land  and  no  ship. 

"July  31. — Land  to-day  visible  at  a 
great  distance  on  the  south.  I  know  not 
what  land  it  may  be.  I  cannot  tell  in 
what  direction  I  am  drifting. 

"August  2. — Land  visible  toward  the 
southwest.  It  seems  like  the  summit  o( 
a  range  of  mountains,  and  is  probably 
fifty  miles  distant. 

"August  5. — A  sail  appeared  on  the- 
horizon.  It  was  too  distant  to  perceive  r 
me.     It  passed  out  of  sight. 

"August  10. — A  series  of  severe  gales,  | 


S 


MANUSCRIPT    FOUND    IN    A    BOTTLE 


43 


! 


The  sea  always  rolls  over  the  brig  in 
these  storms,  and  sometimes  seems  about 
to  carry  her  down. 

"  August  20.— Storms  and  calms  alter- 
nating.   When  will  this  end  ? 

•'August  25. — Land  again  toward  the 
west.  It  seems  as  though  I  may  be 
drifting  among  the  islands  of  the  Indian 
Archipelago. 

"  September  2. — I  have  been  sick  for  a 
week.  Unfortunately  I  am  beginning 
to  recover  again.  A  faint  blue  streak  in 
the  north  seems  like  land. 

"  September  10. — Open  water. 

"September  23. — A  series  of  storms. 
How  the  brig  can  stand  it  I  cannot  see. 
I  remember  Potts  telling  me  that  she  was 
built  of  mahogany  and  copper- fastened. 
She  does  not  appear  to  be  much  injured. 
I  am  exceedingly  weak  from  want  and 
exposure.  It  is  with  difficulty  that  I  can 
move  about. 

"  October  2. — Three  months  adrift.  My 
God  have  mercy  on  me,  and  make  haste 
to  deliver  me !  A  storm  is  rising.  Let  all 
thy  waves  and  billows  overwhelm  me, 
0  Lord ! 

"  October  6. — A  terrific  storm.  Raged 
three  days.  The  brig  has  run  aground. 
It  is  a  low  island,  with  a  rock  about  five 
miles  away.  Thank  God,  my  last  hour 
is  at  hand !  The  sea  is  rushing  in  with 
tremendous  violence,  hurling  sand  upon 
the  brig.  I  shall  drift  no  more.  I  can 
scarcely  hold  this  pen.  These  are  my 
last  words.  This  is  for  Ralph  Brandon. 
My  blessing  for  my  loved  son.     I  feel 


death  coming.    Whether  the  storm  takes 
me  or  not,  I  must  die. 

"  Whoever  finds  this  will  take  it  from 
my  hand,  and,  in  the  name  of  God,  I 
charge  him  to  do  my  bidding." 

This  was  the  last.  The  concluding 
pages  of  the  manuscript  were  scarcely 
legible.  The  entries  were  meagre  and 
formal,  but  the  handwriting  spoke  of  the 
darkest  despair.  What  agonies  had  this 
man  not  endured  during  those  three 
months ! 

Brandon  folded  up  the  manuscript 
reverentially,  and  put  it  into  his  pocket. 
He  then  went  back  into  the  cabin.  Tak- 
ing the  bony  skeleton  hand  he  exclaimed, 
in  a  solemn  voice,  "  In  the  name  of  God, 
if  I  am  saved,  I  swear  to  do  your  bid- 
ding ! " 

He  next  proceeded  to  perform  the  last 
offices  to  the  remains  of  Colonel  Despard. 
On  removing  the  sand  something  bright 
struck  his  eye.  It  was  a  gold  locket. 
As  he  tried  to  open  it  the  rusty  hinge 
broke,  and  the  cover  came  of?. 

It  was  a  painting  on  enamel,  which 
was  as  bright  as  when  made — the  por- 
trait of  a  beautiful  woman,  with  pensive 
eyes,  and  delicate,  intellectual  expression ; 
and  appeared  as  though  it  might  have 
been  worn  around  the  colonel's  neck. 
Brandon  sighed,  then  putting  this  in  his 
pocket  with  the  manuscript  he  proceeded 
to  his  task.  In  an  hour  the  remains 
were  buried  in  the  grave  on  Coffin 
Island. 


O 
O 

cc 

r"* 

u., 
o 


CO 
i'C 


CHAPTER   VIII 


THE  SIGNAL  OF   FIRE 


The  wreck  broke  in  upon  the  mo- 
notony of  Brandon's  island  life  and 
changed  the  current  of  his  thoughts. 
The  revelations  contained  in  Despard's 
manuscript  came  with  perfect  novelty  to 
his  mind.  Potts,  his  enemy,  now  stood 
before  him  in  darker  colors,  the  foulest 
of  miscreants,  one  who  had  descended  to 
an  association  with  Thuggee,  one  who 
bore  on  his  arm  the  dread  mark  of  Bow- 
hani.  Against  such  an  enemy  as  this  he 
would  have  to  be  wary.  If  this  enemy 
suspected  his  existence  could  he  not 
readily  find  means  to  effect  his  destruc- 
tion forever?  Who  could  tell  what 
mysterious  allies  this  man  might  have  ? 
Cigole  had  tracked  and  followed  him 
with  the  patience  and  vindictiveness  of  a 
bloodhound.  There  might  be  many 
such  as  he.  He  saw  plainly  that  if  he 
ever  escaped  his  first  and  highest  neces- 
sity would  be  to  work  in  secret,  to  con- 
ceal his  true  name,  and  to  let  it  be  sup- 
posed that  Louis  Brandon  had  been 
drowned,  while  another  name  would 
enable  him  to  do  what  he  wished. 

The  message  of  Despard  was  now  a 
sacred  legacy  to  himself.  The  duty 
which  the  murdered  man  imposed  upon 
his  father  must  now  be  inherited  by  him. 
Even  this  could  scarcely  add  to  the  obli- 
gations to  vengeance  under  which  he 
already  lay ;  yet  it  freshened  his  passion 
and  quickened  his  resolve. 

The  brig  was  a  novelty  to  him  here, 
and  as  day  succeeded  to  day  he  found 
occupation  in  searching  her.    During  the 


hotter  part  of  the  day  he  busied  himself 
in  shovelling  out  the  sand  from  the  cabin 
with  a  board.  In  the  cool  of  the  morn- 
ing or  evening  he  worked  at  the  hatch- 
way.   Here  he  soon  reached  the  cargo, 

This  cargo  consisted  of  staves  and 
short  boards.  All  were  blackened,  and 
showed  traces  of  fire.  The  fire  seemed 
to  have  burned  down  to  a  depth  of  four 
feet,  and  two  or  three  feet  under  the 
sides;  then  the  water  coming  in  had 
quenched  it. 

He  drew  out  hundreds  of  these  staves 
and  boards,  which  were  packed  in  bundles, 
six  boards  being  nailed  together  as  box 
shooks,  and  thirty  or  forty  staves.  These 
he  threw  out  upon  the  deck  and  on  the 
sand.  What  remained  he  drew  about 
and  scattered  loosely  in  the  hold  of  the 
vessel.  He  did  this  with  a  purpose,  for 
he  looked  forward  to  the  time  when  some 
ship  might  pass,  and  it  would  then  be 
necessary  to  attract  her  attention.  There 
was  no  way  of  doing  so.  He  had  no 
pole,  and  if  he  had  it  might  not  be  noticed. 
A  fire  would  be  the  surest  way  of  draw- 
ing attention,  and  all  this  wood  gave 
him  the  means  of  building  one.  He  scat- 
tered it  about  on  the  sand,  so  that  it 
might  dry  in  the  hot  sun. 

Yet  it  was  also  necessary  to  have  some 
sort  of  a  signal  to  elevate  in  case  of  need, 
He  had  nothing  but  a  knife  to  work 
with  ;  yet  patient  effort  will  do  much,  and 
after  about  a  week  he  had  cut  away  the 
rail  that  ran  along  the  quarter-deck, 
which  gave  him  a  pole  some  twenty  feet 


44 


THE   SIGNAL   OF    FIRE 


45 


in  length.  The  nails  that  fastened  the 
boards  were  all  rusted  so  that  they  could 
not  be  used  in  attaching  anything  to 
this.  He  decided  when  the  time  came  to 
tic  his  coat  to  it,  and  use  that  as  a  Hag. 
It  certainly  ought  to  be  able  to  attract 
attention. 

Occupied  with  such  plans  and  labors 
and  purposes  as  these,  the  days  passed 
quickly  for  two  weeks.  By  that  time  the 
tierce  rays  of  the  sun  had  dried  every 
board  and  stave  so  that  it  became  like 
tinder.  The  ship  itself  felt  the  heat ;  the 
seams  gaped  more  widely,  the  boards 
warped  and  fell  away  from  their  rusty 
nails,  the  timbers  were  exposed  all  over 
it,  and  the  hot,  dry  wind  penetrated  every 
cranny.  The  interior  of  the  hold  and  the 
cabin  became  free  from  damp,  and  hot 
and  dry. 

Then  Brandon  flung  back  many  of  the 
boards  and  staves  loosely ;  and  after 
enough  had  been  thrown  there  he  worked 
luboriously  for  days  cutting  up  large 
numbers  of  the  boards  into  fine  splints, 
until  at  last  a  huge  pile  of  these  shavings 
were  accumulated.  With  these  and  his 
pistol  he  would  be  able  to  obtain  light 
and  fire  in  the  time  of  need. 

The  post  which  he  had  cut  off  was 
then  sharpened  at  one  end,  so  that  he 
could  fix  it  in  the  sand  when  the  time 
came,  should  it  ever  come.  Here,  then, 
these  preparations  were  completed. 

After  all  his  labor  in  the  cabin  nothing 
was  found.  The  bedding,  the  mattresses, 
the  chests,  the  nautical  instruments  had 
all  been  ruined.  The  tables  and  chairs 
fell  to  pieces  when  the  sand  was  removed ; 
the  doors  and  wood-work  sank  away ; 
the  cabin,  when  cleared,  remained  a 
wreck. 

The  weather  continued  hot  and  dry. 
At  night  Brandon  flung  himself  dow 
wherever  he  happened  to  be,  either  A 


the  brig  or  at  the  rock.  Every  day  he 
had  to  go  to  the  rock  for  water,  and  also 
to  look  out  toward  the  sea  from  that  side. 
At  first,  while  intent  upon  his  woik  at  the 
ship,  the  sight  of  the  barren  horizon  every 
day  did  not  mjiterially  affect  him  ;  he  rose 
superior  to  despondency  ard  cheered 
himself  with  his  task.  But  at  length,  at 
the  end  of  about  three  weeks,  all  this 
work  was  r!one  and  nothing  more  re- 
mained. His  only  idea  was  to  labor  to 
effect  his  escape,  and  not  to  ensure  his 
cortifort  during  his  stay. 

Now  as  day  succeeded  to  day  all  his 
old  gloom  returned.  The  excitement  of 
the  last  few  weeks  had  acted  favorably 
upon  his  bodily  health,  but  when  this  was 
removed  he  began  to  feel  more  than  his 
old  weakness.  Such  diet  as  his  might 
sustain  nature,  but  it  could  not  preserve 
health.  He  grew  at  length  to  loathe  the 
food  which  he  had  to  take,  and  it  was 
only  by  a  stern  resolve  that  he  forced 
himself  to  swallow  it. 

At  length  a  new  evil  was  superadded 
to  those  which  had  already  afflicted  him. 
During  the  first  part  of  his  stay  the  hol- 
low or  pool  of  water  on  the  rock  had 
always  been  kept  filled  by  the  frequent 
rains.  But  now  for  three  weeks,  in  fact 
ever  since  the  uncovering  of  the  Vishnu, 
not  a  single  drop  of  rain  had  fallen.  The 
sun  shone  with  intense  heat,  and  the 
evaporation  was  great.  The  wind  at 
first  tempered  this  heat  somewhat,  but  at 
last  this  ceased  to  blow  by  day,  and  often 
for  hours  there  was  a  dead  calm,  in  which 
the  water  of  the  sea  lay  unruffled  and 
all  the  air  was  motionless. 

If  there  could  only  have  been  some- 
thing which  he  could  stretch  over  that 
precious  pool  of  water  he  might  then  have 
arrested  its  flight.  But  he  had  nothing, 
and  could  contrive  nothing.  Every  day 
saw  a  perceptible  decrease  in  its  volume, 


03 


CD 
O 

cx: 


o 

CO 

I'.C 


46 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


and  at  last  it  went  down  so  low  that  he 
thought  he  could  count  the  number  of 
days  that  were  left  him  to  live.  But  his 
despair  could  not  stay  the  operation  of 
the  laws  of  nature,  and  he  watched  the 
decrease  of  that  water  as  one  watches 
the  failing  breath  of  a  dying  child. 

Many  weeks  passed,  and  the  water  of 
the  pool  still  diminished.  At  last  it  had 
sunk  so  low  that  Brandon  could  not  hope 
to  live  more  than  another  week  unless 
rain  came,  and  that  now  he  could  scarcely 
expect.  The  lookout  became  more  hope- 
less, and  at  length  his  thoughts,  instead 
of  turning  toward  escape,  were  occupied 
with  deliberating  whether  he  would  prob- 
ably die  of  starvation  or  simple  physical 
exhaustion.  He  began  to  enter  into  that 
state  of  mind  which  he  had  read  in  Des- 
pard's  MSS.,  in  which  life  ceases  to  be  a 
matter  of  desire,  and  the  only  wish  left  is 
to  die  as  quickly  and  as  painlessly  as 
possible. 

At  length  one  day,  as  his  eyes  swept 
the  water  mechanically  out  of  pure  habit, 
and  not  expecting  anything,  he  saw  far 
away  to  the  northeast  something  which 
looked  like  a  sail.  He  watched  it  for  an 
hour  before  he  fairly  decided  that  it  was 
not  some  mocking  cloud.  But  at  the 
end  of  that  time  it  had  grown  larger,  and 
had  assumed  the  form  which  no  cloud 
could  keep  so  long. 

Now  his  heart  beat  fast,  and  all  the 
old  longing  for  escape,  and  the  old  love 
of  I'fe,  returned  with  fresh  vehemence. 
This  new  emotion  overpowered  him, 
and  he  did  not  try  to  struggle  with 
it. 

Now  had  come  the  day  and  the  hour 
when  all  life  was  in  suspense.  This  was 
his  first  hope,  and  he  felt  that  it  must  be 
his  last.  Experience  had  shown  that  the 
island  must  lie  outside  the  common  track 
of  vessels,  and,  in  the  ordinary  course  of 


things,  if  this  passed  by  he  could   not 
hope  to  see  another. 

Now  he  had  to  decide  how  to  attract 
her  notice.  She  was  still  far  away,  yet 
she  was  evidently  drawing  nearer.  1  lie 
rock  was  higher  than  the  mound  and 
more  conspicuous.  He  determined  to 
carry  his  signal  there,  and  erect  it  sonu- 
where  on  that  place.  So  he  took  up  the 
heavy  staff,  and  bore  it  laboriously  over 
the  sand  till  he  reached  the  rock. 

By  the  time  that  he  arrived  there,  the 
vessel  had  come  nearer.  Her  topsails 
were  visible  above  the  horizon.  Her 
progress  was  very  slow,  for  there  was 
only  very  little  wind.  Her  studding-sails 
were  all  set  to  catch  the  breeze,  and  lier 
course  was  such  that  she  came  gradually 
nearer.  Whether  she  would  come  near 
enough  to  see  the  island  was  another 
question.  Yet  if  they  thought  of  keeping 
a  lookout,  if  the  men  in  the  tops  had 
glasses,  this  rock  and  the  signal  could 
easily  be  seen.  He  feared,  however,  tliat 
this  would  not  be  thought  of.  The 
existence  of  Coffin  Island  was  not  gener- 
ally known,  and  if  they  supposed  that 
there  was  only  open  water  here  they 
would  not  be  on  the  lookout  at  all. 

Nevertheless  Brandon  erected  his  sig- 
nal, and  as  there  was  no  place  on  the 
solid  rock  where  he  could  insert  it  he 
held  it  up  in  his  own  hands.  Hours 
passed.  The  ship  had  come  very  much 
nearer,  but  her  hull  was  not  yet  visible, 
Still  he  stood  there  under  the  burning 
sun,  holding  aloft  his  signal.  Fearing 
that  it  might  not  be  sufficiently  conspicu- 
ous he  fastened  his  coat  to  the  top,  and 
then  waved  it  slowly  backward  and  for- 
ward. 

The  ship  moved  more  slowly  than 
ever ;  but  still  it  was  coming  nearer; 
for  after  some  time,  which  seemed  to 
that  lonely  watcher  like  entire  days,  her 


THE    SIGNAL    OF    FIRE 


47 


hull  l)rcame  visible,  and  her  course  still 
l;iy  nearer. 

Now  Urandon  felt  that  he  must  be 
noticed.  He  waved  his  signal  incessantly. 
He  even  leaped  in  the  air,  so  that  he 
miglit  be  seen.  He  thought  that  the 
rocl<  would  surely  be  perceived  from  the 
ship,  and  if  they  looked  at  that  they 
would  see  the  figure  upon  it. 

Tiicn  despondency  came  over  him. 
The  luill  of  the  ship  was  visible,  but  it 
was  only  the  uppermost  line  of  the  hull. 

;  He  was  standing  on  the  very  top  of  the 

''  rock,  on  its  highest  point.  From  the 
deck  they  could  not  see  the  rock  itself. 

■  He  stooped  down,  and  perceived  that 
the  hull  of  the  ship  sank  out  of  sight. 
Then  he  knew  that  the  rock  would  not 
be  visible  to  them  at  all.  Only  the  upper 
half  of  his  body  could  by  any  possibility 

I  be  visible,  and  he  knew  enough  of  the  sea 
to  understand  that  this  would  have  the 
(lark  sea  for  a  background  to  observers 
in  the  ship,  and  therefore  could  not  be 
seen. 

Still  he  would  not  yield  to  the  dejection 
that  was  rapidly  coming  over  him,  and 
deepening  into  despair  every  minute. 
Never  before  had  he  so  clung  to  hope — 
never  before  had  his  soul  been  more 
indomitable  in  its  resolution,  more  vigo- 
rous in  its  strong  self-assertion. 

He  stood  there  still  waving  his  staff  as 
though  his  life  now  depended  upon  that 
dumb  yet  eloquent  signal — as  though,  like 
Moses,  as  long  as  his  arms  were  erect,  so 
long  would  he  be  able  to  triumph  over 
the  assault  of  despair.  Hours  passed. 
Still  no  notice  was  taken  of  him.  Still 
the  ship  held  on  her  course  slowly,  yet 
steadily,  and  no  change  of  direction,  no 
movement  of  any  kind  whatever,  showed 
that  he  had  been  seen.  What  troubled 
him  now  was  the  idea  that  the  ship  did 
not  come  any  nearer.    This  at  first  he 


refused  to  believe,  but  at  List  he  saw  it 
beyond  doubt,  for  at  length  the  hull  was 
no  longer  visible  above  the  horizon. 

The  ship  was  now  due  north  from  the 
rock,  sailing  on  a  line  directly  parallel 
with  the  island.  It  came  no  nearer.  It 
was  only  passing  by  it.  And  now  Bran- 
don saw  that  his  last  hope  of  attracting 
attention  by  the  signal  was  gone.  The 
ship  was  moving  onward  to  the  west,  and 
every  minute  would  make  it  less  likely 
that  those  on  board  could  see  the  rock. 

During  the  hours  in  which  he  had 
watched  the  ship  he  had  been  busy  con- 
jecturing what  she  might  be,  and  from 
what  port  she  might  have  come.  The 
direction  indicated  China  almost  un- 
doubtedly. He  depicted  in  his  mind  a 
large,  commodious,  and  swift  ship,  with 
many  passengers  on  their  way  back  to 
En  ,  and.  He  imagined  pleasant  soci- 
ety, and  genial  intercourse.  His  fancy 
created  a  thousand  scenes  of  delightful 
association  with  "  the  kindly  race  of  men." 
All  earthly  happiness  seemed  to  him  at 
that  time  to  find  its  centre  on  board  that 
ship  which  passed  before  his  eyes. 

The  seas  were  bright  and  sparkling, 
the  skies  calm  and  deeply  blue,  the 
winds  breathed  softly,  the  white  swelling 
sails  puffed  out  like  clouds  against  the 
blue  sky  beyond.  That  ship  seemed  to 
the  lonely  watcher  like  heaven  itself. 
Oh,  to  pass  beyond  the  limits  of  this 
narrow  sandy  waste  !  to  cross  tne  waters 
and  enter  there !  Oh,  to  reach  that 
ship  which  moved  on  so  majestically,  to 
enter  there  and  be  at  rest ! 

It  was  not  given  to  him  to  enter  there. 
Brandon  soon  saw  this.  The  ship  moved 
farther  away.  Already  the  sun  was 
sinking,  and  the  sudden  night  of  the 
tropics  was  coming  swiftly  on.  There 
was  no  longer  any  hope. 

He  flung  the  staff  down  till  it  broke 


CD 

o 

a: 

LJLI 

o 
E: 

CO 

a: 

LjUI 


CORD   AND   CREESE 


48 

asunder  on  the  hard  rock,  and  stood  for 
a  few  moments  looking^  out  at  sea  in  mute 
despair. 

Yet  could  he  have  known  what  was 
shortly  to  be  the  fate  of  that  ship— shortly, 
only  in  a  few  days — he  would  not  have 
despaired,  he  would  have  rejoiced,  since 
if  death  were  to  be  his  lot  it  were  better 
to  die  where  he  was  than  to  be  rescued 
and  gain  the  sweet  hope  of  lie  afresh, 
nnd  then  have  that  hope  extinguished  in 
blood. 

But  Brandon  did  not  renkain  long  in 
idleness.  There  was  yet  one  resource — 
one  which  he  had  already  thought  of 
through  that  long  day,  but  hesitated  to 
try,  since  he  would  have  to  forsake  his 
signal-station  ;  and  to  remain  there  with 
his  statf  seemed  to  him  then  the  only 
purpos :  of  his  life.  Now  since  the  signal- 
staff  had  failed,  he  had  broken  it,  as  some 
magican  night  break  the  wand  which 
had  failed  to  work  its  appropriate  spell, 
and  other  thingf,  were  before  him.  He 
took  his  coat  and  descended  from  the 
rock  to  make  a  last  effort  for  life.  He 
walked  back  through  the  gathering  gloom 
toward  the  wreck.  He  did  not  run,  nor 
did  he  in  any  way  exhibit  any  excitement 
whatever.  He  walked  with  a  firm  step 
over  the  sand,  neither  hastening  on  nor 
lagging  back,  but  advancing  calmly. 

Before  he  had  gone  half-way  it  was 
cV^rk.  The  sun  had  gone  down  in  a  sea 
of  iire,  and  the  western  sky,  after  flaming 
for  a  time,  had  sunk  into  darkness.  There 
was  no  moon.  The  stars  shone  dimly 
from  behind  a  kind  cf  haze  that  over- 
spread the  sky.  The  wind  came  up 
more  freshly  from  the  east,  and  Brandon 
knew  that  this  wind  would  carry  the  ship 
which  he  wished  to  attract  further  and 
further  away.  That  ship  had  now  died 
out  in  the  dark  of  the  ebon  sea ;  the 
chances  that  he  could  catch  its  notice 


were   all   against    him,   ytt   he   never 
faltered. 

He  had  come  to  a  fixed  resolution, 
which  was  at  all  hazards  to  kindle  his 
signal-fire,  whatever  the  chances  against 
him  might  be.  He  thought  that  the 
flames  flaring  up  would  of  necessity  at- 
tract attention,  and  that  the  vessel  might 
turn,  or  lie-to,  and  try  to  discover  what 
this  might  be.  If  this  last  hope  failed,  he 
was  ready  to  die.  Death  had  now  be- 
come to  him  rather  a  thing  to  be  desired 
thaii  avoided.  For  he  knew  that  it  was 
only  a  change  of  life;  and  how  much 
better  would  life  be  in  a  spiritual  world 
than  life  on  this  lonely  isle. 

This  decision  to  die  took  away  despair. 
Despair  is  only  possible  to  those  who 
value  this  eartaly  life  exclusively.  To 
the  soul  that  looks  forward  to  endless 
lite  despair  can  never  come. 

It  was  with  this  solemn  purpose  that 
Brandon  went  to  the  wreck,  seeking  by  a 
last  chance  after  life,  yet  now  prepared  to 
relinquish  it.  He  had  struggled  for  life 
all  these  wer!:s ;  he  had  fought  and 
wrestled  for  life  with  unutterable  spiritual 
agony,  all  day  long,  on  the  summit  ol 
that  rock,  and  now  the  bitterness  ol 
death  was  past. 

An  hour  and  a  half  was  occupied  in 
the  walk  over  the  sand  to  the  wreck. 
Fresh  waves  of  dark  had  come  over  all 
things,  and  now,  though  there  were  no 
clouds,  yet  the  gloom  was  intense,  and 
faint  points  of  light  in  the  sky  above 
showed  where  the  stars  might  be, 
Where  now  was  the  ship  for  which 
Brandon  sought  ?  He  cared  not.  He 
Wcs  going  to  kindle  his  signal-fire.  The 
wino  was  blowing  freshly  by  the  time  that 
he  reached  the  place.  Such  a  wind  had 
not  blown  for  weeks.  It  would  take  the 
ship  away  farther.  What  mattered  it? 
He  would  seize  his  last  chance,  if  it  were 


THE   SIGNAL   OF    FIRE 


49 


only  to  put  that  last  chance  away  for- 
ever, and  thus  make  an  end  to  sus- 
pense. 

All  his  prepar^'tions  had  long  since 
been  made ;  the  dry  wood  lay  loosely 
thrown  about  the  hold  ;  the  pile  of  shav- 
ings and  fine  threadlike  splinters  was 
there  awaiting  him.  He  had  only  to 
apply  the  fire. 

He  took  his  linen  handkerchief  and 
tore  it  up  into  fine  threads ;  these  he  tore 
apart  again  and  rubbed  in  his  hand  till 
they  were  olmost  as  loose  as  lint.  He 
then  took  these  loose  fibres,  and  descend- 
ing into  the  hold,  put  them  underneath 
the  pile  which  he  had  prepared.  Then 
he  took  his  pistol,  and  holding  it  close  to 
the  lint  fired  it. 

The  explosion  rang  out  with  startling 
force  in  the  narrow  hull  of  the  ship ;  the 
lint  received  the  fire  and  glowed  with  the 
sparks  into  spots  of  red-heat.  Brandon 
blew  with  his  breath,  and  the  wind 
streaming  down  lent  its  assistance. 

In  a  few  moments  the  work  was  done. 

It  blazer  i 

But  scarcely  had  the  first  flame  ap 
peared  than  a  puff  of  wind  came  down 
and  extinguished  it.  The  sparks,  how- 
ever, were  there  yet.  It  was  as  though 
the  fickle  wind  were  tantalizing  him — at 
one  time  helping,  at  another  baffling  him. 
Once  more  Brandon  blew.  Once  more 
the  blaze  arose.  Brandon  flung  his  coat 
skirts  in  -.ront  of  it  till  it  might  gather 
strength.  The  blaze  ran  rapidly  through 
the  fine  splints,  it  extended  itself  toward 
the  shavings,  it  threw  its  arms  upward 
I  to  the  larger  sticks. 

The  dry  wood  kindled.  A  million 
j  sparks  flew  out  as  it  crackled  under  the 
assault  of  the  devouring  fire.  The  flame 
spread  itself  out  to  a  larger  volume ;  it 
widened,  expanded,  and  clasped  the  kind- 
ling all  around  in  its  fervid    embrace. 


The  flame  had  been  baffled  ai  f  rst ;  but 
now,  as  if  to  assert  its  own  supremacy,  it 
rushed  out  in  all  directions,  with  some- 
thing that  seemed  almost  like  exultation. 
That  flame  had  once  been  conquered  by 
the  waters  in  this  very  ship.  The  wood 
had  saved  the  ship  from  the  v  aters.  It 
was  as  though  the  WOOD  had  once  in- 
vited the  Fire  to  union,  but  the  Water 
had  stepped  in  and  prevented  the  union 
by  force ;  as  though  the  Wood,  resent- 
ing the  interfereiiv,e,  had  baffled  the 
assault?  of  the  Water,  and  saved  itself 
intact  through  the  long  years  for  the 
embrace  of  its  first  love. 

Now  the  Fire  sought  the  Wood  once 
more  after  so  many  years,  and  in  ardor 
unspeakable  embraced  its  bride. 

Such  fantastic  notions  passed  through 
Brandon's  fancy  as  he  looked  at  the 
triumph  of  the  flame.  But  he  could  not 
stay  there  long,  and  as  he  had  not  made 
up  his  mind  to  give  himself  to  the  flames 
he  clambered  up  quickly  out  of  the 
hatchway  and  stood  upon  the  sand 
without. 

The  smoke  was  ^(ouring  through  the 
hatchway,  the  black  voluminous  folds 
being  rendered  visible  by  the  glow  of  the 
flames  beneath,  which  now  had  gained 
the  ascendency,  and  set  ai.  *he  winds  at 
defiance.  Indeed  it  was  so  now  that 
whatever  wind  came  only  as  listed  the 
flames,  and  Brandon,  as  he  joked  on, 
amused  himself  with  the  thouf  ht  that  the 
wind  was  like  the  world  of  man,  which, 
when  anyone  is  first  struggling,  has  a 
tendency  to  crush  him,  but  when  he  has 
once  gained  a  foothold  exerts  all  its 
efforts  to  help  him  along.  In  this  mood, 
half  cynical,  half  imaginative,  he  watched 
the  progress  of  the  flames. 

Soon  all  the  fine  kindling  had  crumbled 
away  at  the  touch  of  the  fire,  and  commu- 
nicating its  own  heat  to  the  wood  around, 


CD 

o 

f 

cc 


f" 


CD 
CO 


50 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


it  sank  down,  a  glowing  mass,  the  foun- 
dation of  the  rising  fires. 

Here,  from  this  central  heart  of  fire, 
the  flames  rushed  on  upon  the  wood 
which  lay  loosely  on  all  sides,  filling  the 
hull.  Through  that  wood  the  dry  hot 
wind  had  streamed  for  many  weeks,  till 
every  stave  and  every  board  had  become 
dry  to  its  utmost  possibility.  Now  at 
the  first  breath  of  the  flame  the  wood 
yielded;  at  the  first  touch  it  flared  up, 
and  prepared  to  receive  the  embrace  of 
the  fire  in  every  fibre  of  its  being. 

The  flame  rolled  on.  It  threw  its  long 
arms  through  the  million  interstices  of 
the  loose  piles  of  wood,  it  penetrated 
everywhere  with  its  subtle,  far-reaching 
power,  till  within  the  ship  the  glow 
broadened  and  widened,  the  central  heart 
of  fire  enlarged  its  borders,  and  the 
floods  of  flame  that  flowed  from  it 
rushed  with  consuming  fury  through  the 
whole  body  of  the  ship. 

Glowing  with  bright  lustre,  increasing 
in  that  brightness  every  moment,  leaping 
up  as  it  consumed  and  flashing  vividly 
as  it  leaped  up,  a  thousand  to.igues 
of  flame  streamed  upward  through  th*^ 
crannies  of  the  gaping  deck,  and  between 
the  wide  orifices  of  the  planks  and  timbers 
the  dazzling  fi;;me.s  gleamed ;  a  thousand 
resistless  arms  seemed  extended  forward 
to  grasp  the  fabric  now  completely  at 
their  mercy, and  'he  hot  breath  of  the  fire 
shrivelled  up  all  in  its  path  before  yet  its 
hands  were  laid  upon  it. 

And  fast  and  furious,  with  eager 
advance,  thft  flames  rushed  on  devour- 
ing everything.  Through  the  hatchway, 
around  which  the  fiercest  fires  gathered, 
the  stream  of  flame  rose  impetuously  on 
high,  in  a  straight  upward  torrent,  hurl- 
ing a  vaijt  pyramid  of  fire  to  the  ebon 
skies,  a  ^p^oydf  fiiyav  nuyuva  which,  like 
that  which   once   illumed  the  Slavonic 


strait  with  the  signal-fire  first  caught 
from  burning  Troy,  here  threw  its  radi- 
ance  far  ov  .  the  deep. 

While  the  lighter  wood  lasted  the 
flame  was  in  the  ascendant,  and  nobly  jt 
did  its  work.  Whatever  could  be  done 
by  bright  radiance  and  far-penetrating 
lustre  was  done  here.  If  that  ship 
which  had  passed  held  any  men  on 
board  capable  of  feeling  a  human  interest 
in  the  visible  signs  of  calamity  at  sea, 
they  would  be  able  to  read  in  this  flame 
that  there  was  disaster  somewhere  upon 
these  waters,  and  if  they  had  human 
hearts  they  would  turn  to  see  if  there 
was  not  some  suffering  which  they  might 
relieve. 

But  the  lighter  and  the  dryer  wood 
was  at  last  consumed,  and  now  there 
remained  that  which  Brandon  had  never 
touched,  the  dense  masses  which  still 
lay  piled  where  they  had  been  placed 
eighteen  years  before.  Upon  these  the 
fire  now  marched.  But  already  the  long 
days  and  weeks  of  scorching  sun  and 
fierce  wind  had  not  been  without  their 
effects,  and  the  dampness  had  been  sub- 
dued. Besides,  the  fire  that  advanced 
upon  them  had  already  gained  immense 
advantage ;  for  one-half  of  the  brig  was 
one  glowing  mass  of  heat,  which  sent 
forth  its  consuming  forces,  and  withered 
up,  and  blighted,  and  annihilated  all 
around.  The  close-bound  and  close- 
packed  masses  of  staves  and  boards  re- 
ceived the  resistless  embrace  of  the  fire, 
and  where  they  did  not  flame  they  still  | 
gave  forth  none  the  less  a  blazeless  glow, 

Now  from  the  burning  vessel  the  flame  | 
arose  no  more,  but  in  its  p'xe  there  ap- 1 
peared  that  which  sent  forth  as  vivid  a 
gleam,  and  as  far-flashing  alight.    The 
fire  had  full  sway,  though  it  gave  forth  | 
no  blaze,  and,  while  it  gleamed  but  little, 
still  it  devoured.    From  the  sides  of  the  I 


'M 


,   i     ,    .   I       ;    I    .        I   (  I 


THE   SIGNAL   OF    FIRE 


SI 


ship  the  planks,  blasted  by  the  intense 
heat  and  by  the  outburst  of  the  flames, 
had  sprung  away,  and  now  for  nearly  all 
the  length  of  the  vessel  the  timbers  were 
exposed  without  any  covering.  Between 
these  flashed  forth  the  gleam  of  the  fire  in- 
side, which  now  in  one  pure  mass  glowed 
with  dazzling  brightness  and  intense  heat. 

But  the  wood  inside,  damp  as  it  was, 
and  solid  in  its  fibre,  did  not  allow  a  very 
swift  progress  to  the  fire.  It  burned,  but 
it  burned  slowly.  It  glowed  like  the 
charcoal  of  a  furnace  from  behind  its 
wooden  bars. 

The  massive  timbers  of  mahogany 
wood  yielded  slowly  and  stubbornly  to 
the  conflagration.  They  stood  up  like 
iron  bars  long  after  all  the  interior  was 
one  glowing  mass.  But,  though  they 
yielded  slowly,  still  they  had  to  yield  with 
the  passage  of  hours  to  the  progress  of 
the  fire.  And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  at 
length  the  strong  sides,  sapped  by  the 
steady  and  resistless  assault,  surrendered. 
One  by  one  the  stout  timbers,  now  wasted 
and  weakened,  gave  way  and  sank  down 
into  the  fervid  mass  beneath.  At  last  the 
whole  centre  was  one  accumulation  of 
glowing  ashes,  and  all  that  remained 
were  the  bow,  covered  with  sand,  and  the 
stern,  with  the  quarter-deck. 

The  fire  spread  in  both  directions.  The 
stern  yielded  first.  Here  the  strong  deck 
sustained  for  a  time  the  onset  of  the  fire 
that  had  consumed  everything  beneath, 
but  at  last  it  sunk  in  ;  the  timbers  of  the 
sides  followed  next,  and  all  had  gopj. 
With  the  bow  there  was  a  longer  p,id  a 
harder  struggle.  The  fire  had  penetrated 
far  into  that  part  of  the  vessel ;  the  flames 
smouldered  there,  but  the  conflagration 
went  on,  and  smoke  and  blue  flames 
issued  from  every  part  of  that  sandy 
mound,  which,  fiercely  assailed  by  the 
heat,  gave  way  in  every  direction,  broke  in- 


to a  million  crevices,  and  in  places  melted 
and  ran  together  in  a  glowing  molten 
heap.  Here  the  fires  burned  longest,  and 
here  they  lived  and  gleamed  until  morning. 

Long  before  morning  Brandon  had 
fallen  asleep.  He  had  stood  first  near 
the  burning  wreck.  Then  the  heat 
forced  him  to  move  away,  and  he  had 
gone  to  a  ridge  of  sand,  where  this  penin- 
sula joined  the  island.  There  he  sat 
down,  watching  the  conflagration  for  a 
long  time.  There  the  light  flashed,  and 
if  that  ship  for  which  he  was  signalling 
had  noticed  this  sign,  and  had  examined 
the  island,  his  figure  could  be  seen  by  any- 
one that  chose  to  examine. 

But  hours  passed  on.  He  strained  his 
eyes  through  the  gloom  in  the  direction 
in  which  the  ship  had  vanished  to  see  if 
there  were  any  sign  there.  None  ap- 
peared. The  progi  ess  of  the  fire  was  slow. 
It  went  on  burning  and  glowing  with  won- 
derful energy  all  through  the  night,  till  at 
last,  not  long  before  dawn,  the  stern  fell 
m,  and  nothing  now  was  left  but  the  sand- 
mound  that  covered  the  bows,  which,  burn- 
ning  beneath,  gave  forth  smoke  and  fire. 

Then,  exhausted  by  fatigue,  he  sank 
down  on  the  sand  and  fell  into  a  sound 
sleep. 

In  the  midst  of  thronging  dreams,  from 
the  depths  of  that  imaginary  land  where 
his  weary  spirit  wandered  in  sleep,  he 
was  suddenly  roused.  A  hand  was  laid 
on  his  shoulder,  which  shook  him 
roughly,  and  a  hoarse  voice  shouted  in 
his  ear,  "  Messmate !  Hallo,  messmate ! 
Wake  up!" 

Brandon  started  up  and  gazed  with 
wild,  astonished  eyes  around.  It  was 
day.  The  sun  was  two  or  three  hou -s 
above  the  horizon.  He  was  surroundc^ 
by  half  a  dozen  seamen,  who  were  regard- 
ing him  with  wondering  but  kindly  faces. 
The  one  who  spoke  appeared  to  be  their 


CD 
O 
rr:! 


'K 
„.>- 

CO 

€C 
l.U 

•"•■'■"•in 


\.y 


5a 

leader.  He  held  a  spy-glass  in  his  hand. 
He  was  a  sturdy,  thick-set  man  of  about 
fifty,  whose  grizzled  hair,  weather-beaten 
face,  groggy  nose,  and  whiskers,  coming 
all  round  under  his  chin,  gave  him  the 
air  of  old  Benbow  as  he  appears  on  the 
stage—"  a  reg'lar  old  salt,"  "  sea-dog,"  or 
whatever  other  name  the  popular  taste 
loves  to  apply  to  the  British  tar. 

"  Hard  luck  here,  messmate,"  said  this 
man,  with  a  smile.    "  But  you're  all  right 

Won't  you 
held  out  a 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


now.  Come !  Cheer  up ! 
take  a  drink? "  And  he 
brandy-flask. 

Brandon  rose  mechanically  in  a  kind  of 
maze,  not  yet  understanding  his  good  for- 
tune, not  yet  knowing  whether  he  was 
alive  or  dead.  He  took  the  flask  and 
raised  it  to  his  lips.  The  inspiriting 
draught  gave  him  new  life.  He  looked 
earnestly  at  the  captain  as  he  handed  it 
back,  and  then  seized  both  his  hands. 

"God  Almighty  bless  you  for  this, 
noble  friend,  whoever  you  are !  But  how 
and  when  did  you  get  here  ?  Who  are 
you  ?  Did  you  not  see  my  signal  on  the 
rock  yesterday  ?  " 

"  One  question  at  a  time,  messmate," 
said  the  other  laughingly.  "  I'm  Captain 
Corbet,  of  the  ship  Falcon,  bound  from 
Sydney  to  London,  and  these  are  some  of 
my  men.  We  saw  this  light  last  night 
about  midnight,  right  on  our  v/eather 
bow,  and  came  up  to  see  what  it  was. 
We  found  shoal  water,  and  kept  off  till 
morning.    There's  the  Falcon,  sir." 

The  captain  waved  his  hand  proudly  to 
where  a  large,  handsome  ship  lay,  about 
seven  miles  away  to  the  south. 

"  On  your  bow  ?  Did  you  see  the  fire 
ahead  of  you  ? "  asked  Brandon,  who 
now  began  to  comprehend  the  situation. 

"Yes." 

"  Then  you  didn't  pass  me  toward  the 
north  yesterday?" 


"  No ;  never  was  near  this  place  before 
this  morning." 

"  It  must  have  been  some  other  ship, 
then,"  said  Brandon  musingly. 

"  But  how  did  you  get  here,  and  how 
long  have  you  been  here  ?  " 

Brandon  had  long  since  decided  on  the 
part  he  was  to  play.  His  story  was  all 
ready : 

"  My  name  is  Edward  Wheeler,  i 
came  out  supercargo  in  the  brig  Argo, 
with  a  cargo  of  hogshead  staves  and  box 
shooks  from  London  to  Manilla.  On  the 
i6th  of  September  last  we  encountered  a 
tremendous  storm  and  struck  on  this 
sand-bank.  It  is  not  down  on  any  of  the 
charts.  The  vessel  stuck  hard  and  fast, 
and  the  sea  made  a  clean  breach  over  us, 
The  captain  and  crew  put  out  the  boat, 
and  tried  to  get  away,  but  were  swamped 
and  drowned.  I  stayed  by  the  wreck  till 
morning.  The  vessel  stood  the  storm 
well,  for  she  had  a  solid  cargo,  was 
strongly  built,  and  the  sand  formed 
rapidly  all  about  her.  The  storm  lasted 
for  several  days,  and  by  the  end  of  that 
time  a  shoal  had  formed.  Several  storms 
have  occurred  since,  and  have  heaped  the 
sand  all  over  her.  I  have  lived  here  ever 
since  in  great  misery.  Yesterday  a  vessel 
passed,  and  I  put  up  a  signal  on  the  rock 
over  there,  which  she  did  not  notice.  In 
despair  I  set  fire  to  the  brig,  which  was 
loaded  with  wood  and  burned  easily.  I 
watched  till  morning,  and  then  fell  asleep. 
You  found  me  so.  That's  all  I  have  to 
say." 

On  hearing  this  story  nothing  could  I 
exceed  the  kindness  and  sympathy  oi 
these  honest-hearted  seamen.  The  cap- 
tain insisted  on  his  taking  another  drink, 
apologized  for  having  to  carry  him  back 
to  England,  and  finally  hurried  him  oil 
to  the  boat.  Before  two  hours  Brandon  | 
I  stood  on  the  deck  of  the  Falcon. 


CHAPTER  IX 


THE  MALAY  PIRATE 


Two  days  had  passed  since  Brandon's 
rescue.  The  light  winu  which  had 
brought  up  the  Falcon  soon  died  out, 
and  before  the  island  had  been  left  far 
behind  a  calm  succeeded,  and  there  was 
nothing  left  but  to  drift. 

A  calm  in  other  seas  is  stillness,  here 
on  the  Indian   Ocean  it   is  stagnation. 
The  calmness  is  like  Egyptian  darkness. 
It  may  be  felt.     The  stagnation  of  the 
waters  seems  deep  enouq[h  to  destroy  all 
life  there.     The  air  is  thick,  oppressive, 
feverish ;    there    is  not  a  breath    or  a 
murmur  of   wind ;    even   the    swell    of 
ocean,  which  is  never-ending,  here  ap- 
proaches as  near  as  possible  to  an  end. 
j  The  ocean  rolled   but  slightly,  but  the 
light  undulations    gave  a  lazy,  listless 
motion  to  the  ship,  the  spars  creaked 
I  monotonously,  and  the  great  sails  flapped 
I  idly  in  the  air. 

At  such  a  time  the  calm  itself  is  suffi- 
Iciently  dreary,  but  now  there  was  some- 
thing which  made  all  things  still  more 
drear.     For  the  calm  was  attended  by  a 
thick  fog;  not  a  moist,  drizzling  fog  like 
[those  of  the  North  Atlantic,  but  a  sultry, 
[dense,  dry  fog  ;  a  fog  which  gave  greater 
[emphasis  to  the  heat,  and,  instead  of 
[alleviating  it,  made  it  more  oppressive. 
It  was  so  thick  that  it  was  not  possible 
[while  standing  at  the  wheel  to  see  the 
jforecastle.    Aloft,  all  the  heavens  were 
Ihidden    in    a  canopy    of    sickly    gray; 
Ibeneath,  the  sea  showed  the  same  color. 
[its  glassy  surface  exhibited  not  a  ripple. 
Ia  small  space  only  surrounded  the  vessel. 


and  beyond  all  things  were  lost  to 
view. 

The  sailors  were  scattered  about  the 
ship  in  groups  Some  had  ascended  to 
the  tops  with  a  faint  hope  of  finding  more 
air ;  some  were  lying  flat  on  their  faces 
on  the  forecastle ;  others  had  sought 
those  places  which  were  under  the  sails 
where  the  occasional  flap  of  the  broad 
canvas  sent  down  a  slight  current  of  air. 

The  captain  was  standing  on  the 
quarter-deck,  while  Brandon  was  seated 
on  a  stool  near  the  wheel.  He  had  been 
treated  by  the  captain  w'*h  unbounded 
hospitality,  and  supplied  with  everything 
that  he  could  wish. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  the  captain,  who 
had  been  conversing  with  Brandon,  "  I 
don't  like  calms  anywhere,  still  less 
calms  with  fogs,  and  least  of  all,  calms 
off  these  infernal  islands." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  to  the  north'ard  is  the  Strait 
of  Sunda,  and  the  Malay  pirates  are 
always  cruising  about,  often  as  far  as 
this.  Did  you  ever  happen  to  hear  of 
Zangorri  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  all  I  can  say  is,  if  you  hadn't 
been  wrecked,  you'd  have  probably  had 
your  throat  cut  by  that  devil." 

"  Can't  anybody  catch  him  ?" 

"  They  don't  catch  him  at  any  rate. 
Whether  they  can  or  not  is  another 
question." 

"  Have  you  arms  ?  " 

'•Yes.    I've  got  enough  to  give  Zan- 


>•■> 


c.-> 
v- 

CD 

'V, 


■^  -O- 


%"'. 


--.III 


S3 


54 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


i-orii  a  pleasanter  reception  than  he 
usually  gets  from  a  merchant-ship ;  and 
my  lads  are  the  boys  that  can  use 
them." 

"I  wonder  what  has  become  of  that 
other  ship  that  passed  me  on  the  island," 
said  Brandon,  after  a  pause. 

"She  can't  be  \ery  far  away  from  us," 
replied  the  captain,  "  and  we  may  come 
up  with  her  before  we  get  to  the  Cape." 

A  silence  followed.  Suddenly  the  cap- 
tain's attention  was  arrested  by  some- 
thing. He  raised  his  hand  to  his  ear  and 
listened  very  attentively.  "  Do  you  hear 
that?  "  he  asked  quickly. 

Brandon  arose  and  walked  to  where 
the  captain  was.  Then  both  listened. 
And  over  the  sea  there  came  unmistaka- 
ble sounds.  The  regular  movement  of 
vars !  Oars  out  on  the  Indian  Ocean  ! 
Yet  the  sound  was  unmistakable. 

"  It  must  be  some  poor  devils  that  have 
escaped  from  shipwreck,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, half  to  himself. 

"Well,  fire  a  gun." 

"  No,"  said  the  captain  cautiously, 
after  a  pause.  "  It  may  be  somebody 
else.    Wait  a  bit." 

So  they  waited  a  little  while.  Sud- 
denly there  came  a  crv  of  human  voices 
— a  volley  of  guns  !  Shrieks,  yells  of 
defiance,  shouts  of  triumph,  howls  of 
rage  or  of  pain,  all  softened  by  the  dis- 
tance, and  all  in  their  unison  sounding 
appallingly  as  they  were  borne  through 
the  gloom  of  the  fog. 

Instantly  every  man  in  the  ship 
bounded  to  his  feet.  They  had  not  heard 
the  first  sounds,  but  these  they  heard, 
and  in  that  superstition  which  is  natural 
to  the  sailer,  each  man's  first  thought 
was  that  the  noises  came  from  the  sky, 
and  so  each  looked  with  a  stupefied 
countenance  at  his  neighbor. 

But  the  captain   did    not    share    the 


common  feeling.  "  I  knew  it !  "  he  cried, 
"  I  expecteu  it,  and  blow  my  old  eyes 
out  if  I  don't  catch  'em  this  time!" 

"  What.?  "  cried  Brandon. 

But  th:  captain  did  not  hear.  In. 
stantly  his  whole  demeanor  was  changed. 
He  sprang  to  the  companion-way.  He 
spoke  but  one  word,  not  in  a  loud  voice, 
but  in  tones  so  stern,  so  startling,  that 
every  man  in  the  ship  heard  the  word : 

"  Zangorri !  " 

All  knew  what  it  meant.  It  meant 
that  the  most  bloodthirsty  pirate  of 
these  Eastern  seas  was  attacking  some 
ship  behind  that  veil  of  fog. 

And  what  ship  ?  This  was  the  thought 
that  came  to  Brandon.  Could  it  by  any 
possibility  be  the  one  which  passed  by 
him  when  he  strove  so  earnestly  to  gain 
her  attention  ? 

"  Out  with  the  long-boat !  Load  (lie 
carronade  !  Man  the  boat  !  Hurry  up, 
lads,  for  God's  sake  !  "  And  the  captain 
dashed  down  into  the  cabin.  In  an  in- 
stant he  was  back  again,  buckling  on  a 
belt  with  a  couple  of  pistols  in  it,  and 
calling  to  his  men,  "  Don't  shout,  don't 
cheer,  but  hurry,  for  God's  sake  !  " 

And  the  men  rushed  about,  some  col- 
lecting arms,  others  laboring  at  the  boat. 
The  Falcon  was  well  supplied  with  arms, 
as  the  captain  had  said.  Three  guns, 
any  CjUantity  of  smaller  arms,  and  a  Long 
Tom,  formed  her  armament,  while  the 
long-boat  had  a  carronade  in  her  bows, 
Thanks  to  the  snug  and  orderly  arrange- 
ment ot  the  ship,  everything  was  soon 
ready.  The  long-boat  was  out  and  atloat, 
All  the  seamen  except  four  were  on  board, 
and  the  captain  went  down  last. 

"  Now,  pull  away,  lads  !  "  he  cried  ;  "no 
talking,"  and  he  took  the  tiller  ropes.    As  I 
he  seated  himself  he  looked  toward  the 
bows,  and  his  eyes  encountered  the  calm  j 
face  of  Brandon. 


THE    MALAY    PIRATE 


55 


"  What !  you  here  ?  "  he  cried,  with  un- 
mistakable delight. 

Brandon's  reply  consisted  simply  in 
drawing  a  revolver  from  his  pocket. 

"  You're  a  brick ! "  said  the  captain. 

Not  another  word  was  spoken.  The 
captain  steered  the  boat  toward  the  direc- 
tion from  which  the  sounds  came.  These 
grew  louder  every  moment — more  men- 
acing and  more  terrible. 

The  sailors  put  all  their  strength  to  the 
oars,  and  drove  the  great  boat  through 
the  water.  To  their  impatience  it  seemed 
as  though  they  would  never  get  there. 
Yet  the  place  which  they  desired  so  much 
to  reach  was  not  far  away ;  the  sounds 
were  now  very  near;  and  at  length,  as 
they  drove  onward,  the  tall  sides  of  a  ship 
burst  on  their  sight  through  the  gloom. 
By  its  side  was  a  boat  of  the  kind  that  is 
used  by  the  Malays.  On  board  the  ship 
a  large  number  of  savage  figures  were 
rushing  about  in  mad  ferocity. 

In  a  moment  the  boat  was  seen.  A 
shout  rose  from  the  Malays.  A  score  of 
them  clambered  swiftly  down  the  ship's 
side  to  their  boat,  and  a  panic  seemed  to 
seize  all  the  rest,  who  stood  looking 
around  irresolutely  for  some  way  of 
escape. 

The  boatswain  was  in  the  bows  of  the 
long-boat,  and  as  the  Malays  crowded 
i  into  their  craft  he  took  aim  with  the 
carronade,  and  fired.  The  explosion 
thundered  through  the  air.  A  terrific 
shriek  followed.  The  next  instant  the 
Malay  boat,  filled  with  writhing  dusky 
figures,  went  down  beneath  the  waters. 

The     long-boat     immediately      after 

touched  the  side  of  the  ship.    Brandon 

I  grasped  a  rope  with  his   left  hand,  and, 

t  holding  his  revolver  in  his  right,  leaped 

I  upward.     A    Malay   with   uplifted    knife 

J  struck  at  him.    Bang  1  went  the  revolver, 

;and  the  Malay  fell  dead.    The  next  in- 


stant Brandon  was  on  board,  followed  by 
all  the  sailors,  who  sprang  upward  and 
clambered  into  the  vessel  before  the  Ma- 
lays could  rally  from  the  first  shock  of 
surprise. 

But  the  panic  was  arrested  by  a  man 
who  bounded  upon  deck  through  the 
hatchway.  Roused  by  the  noise  of  the 
gi'n  he  had  hurried  up,  and  reached  the 
d'.'ck  just  as  the  sailors  arrived.  In  fierce, 
siorn  words  he  shouted  to  his  men,  and 
the  ivlalays  gathered  new  courage  from 
his  words.  There  were  about  fifty  of 
these,  and  not  more  than  thirty  English 
sailors;  but  the  former  had  carelessly 
dropped  their  arms  about,  and  most  of 
their  pieces  were  unloaded ;  the  latter, 
therefore,  hud  it  all  their  own  way. 

The  first  thing  that  they  did  was  to 
pour  a  volley  into  the  crowd  of  Malays, 
as  they  stood  trying  to  face  their  new 
enemy.  The  next  moment  the  sailors 
rushed  upon  them,  some  with  cutlasses, 
some  with  pistols,  and  some  with  clubbed 
muskets. 

The  Malays  resisted  desperately.  Some 
fought  with  their  creeses,  others  snatched 
up  muskets  and  used  them  vigorously, 
others,  unarmed,  flung  themselves  upon 
their  assailants,  biting  and  tearing  like 
wild  beasts. 

In  the  midst  of  the  scene  stood  the 
chief,  wielding  a  clubbed  musket.  He 
was  a  man  of  short  stature,  broad  chest, 
and  great  muscular  power.  Three  or 
four  of  the  sailors  had  already  been 
knocked  down  beneath  his  blows. 

"  Down  with  him !"  yelled  the  captain. 
"It's  Zangorri !  " 

A  venomous  smile  passed  over  the 
dark  face  of  the  Malay.  Then  he  shouted 
to  his  men,  and  in  an  instant  they  rushed 
to  the  quarter-deck  and  took  up  a  posi- 
tion there,  A  few  of  them  obtained  some 
more  muskets  that  lay  about. 


CX3 


CC 
LlJ 
I-- 

LU. 

;::>-. 

•  ■M-mVMnW 

CO 

ex: 

i.U 

"si! 


5^ 

The  captain  shouted  to  his  men,  who 
were  pursuing  the  Malays,  to  load  once 
more.  They  did  so,  poured  in  a  volley, 
and  then  rushed  to  the  quarter-deck. 
Now  a  fiercer  fight  took  place.  Tlie 
captain  with  his  pistol  shot  one  man 
dead  ,  the  next  instant  ae  was  knocked 
down.  The  boatswain  was  grappled  by 
two  powerful  men.  The  rest  of  the  sailors 
were  driving  all  before  them. 

Meanwhile  Brandon  had  been  in  the 
very  centre  of  the  fight.  With  his  re- 
xolvec  in  hi?  left  hand  he  held  a  cutlass  in 
his  right,  and  every  blow  that  he  ^^ave 
told.  He  had  sought  all  through  the 
struggle  to  reach  th i:  spOt  where  Zangorri 
stooi.but  had  hitherto  been  unsuccessful. 
At  the  retreat  which  the  Malays  made  he 
hastily  loaded  three  of  the  chambers  of 
his  revolver  which  he  had  emptied  into 
the  hearts  of  three  Malays,  an 'i  sp*  ^ng 
upon  the  quarter-deck  first.  The  man 
who  struck  down  the  captain  fell  dead 
from  Brandon's  pistol,  just  as  h^  stooped 
to  plunge  his  knife  into  the  heart  of  the 
prostrate  man.  Another  shot  sent  over 
one  of  the  boatswain's  assailants,  and  the 
other  assailant  was  kicked  up  into  the 
air  and  overboard  by  the  boatswain 
himself. 

After  this  Brandon  had  no  more  trouble 
to  get  at  Zangorri,  for  the  Malay  chief 
with  a  howl  of  fury  called  on  his  men, 
and  sprang  at  him.  Two  quick  flashes, 
two  sharp  reports,  and  down  went  twc  of 
them.  Zangorri  grasped  Brandon's  hand, 
and  raised  his  knife ;  the  next  instant 
Brandon  had  shifted  his  pistol  to  his 
other  hand ;  he  fired,  Zangorri's  arm  fell 
by  his  side,  broken  and  the  knife  rang  on 
the  ship's  deck. 

Brandon  bounded  at  his  throat.  He 
wound  his  arms  around  him,  and  with  a 
tremendous  jerk  hurled  Zangoni  to  the 
deck,  and  heUi  him  there. 


CORD    AN'     CREESE 


A  cry  of  terror  and  dismay  arose  from 
the  Malays  as  they  saw  their  chief  fall, 
The  sailors  shouted ;  there  was  no 
further  fighting;  some  of  the  piratts 
were  killed,  others  leaped  overboard  and 
tried  to  swim  away.  The  sailors,  in 
their  fury,  shot  at  these  wretches  as  they 
swam.  The  cruelty  of  Zangorri  had 
stimulated  such  a  thirst  for  vengeance 
that  none  thought  of  giving  quarter. 
Out  of  all  the  Malays  the  only  one  alive 
was  Zangorri  himself,  who  now  lay  gasp. 
in,q[,  with  a  mighty  hand  on  his  throat. 

t\t  last,  as  his  strojjgles  grew  feebler, 
Brandon  relaxed  his  grasp.  Some  of  the 
sailors  came  up  with  uplifted  knives  to 
put  an  end  to  Zangorri.  "  Back !  "  cried 
Brandon  fiercely.  "  Don'  touch  him, 
He's  mine! ' 

"  He  must  die!" 

"  That's  for  me  to  say,"  cried  Brandon 
in  a  stern  voice  that  forbade  reply.  In 
fact,  the  sailors  seemed  to  feel  that  he 
had  the  best  claim  here,  since  he  harl  not 
only  captured  Zangorri  with  his  own 
hands,  but  had  borne  the  chief  share  in 
the  fight, 

"  Englishman,"  said  a  voice,  "  I  thank 
you." 

Brandon  started. 

It  was  Zangorri  who  had  spoken  ;  and 
in  very  fair  English  too. 

"  Do  you  speak  English  ?  "  was  all 
that  he  could  say  in  his  rurprise. 

"  I  ought  to.  I've  seen  enough  of 
them/'  growled  the  other. 

"  Vou  scoundrel  i  "  cried  Brdmloii, 
"  you  have  nothing  to  thank  me  for, 
You  must  die  a  worse  death." 

"  Ah ! "  sneered  Zane:orri.  "  Wei,  it's 
about  time.'  But  my  death  m  11  not  pay 
for  the  hundreds  of  English  lives  that  1 
have  taken.  I  thank  you,  though,  for 
you  will  Rive  me  time  yet  to  tell  the  Eng- 
lishmen how  I  h^te  them." 


*r^, 


THE    MALAY    PIRATE 


57 


And  the  expression  of  hate  that 
gleamed  from  the  eyes  of  the  Malay  was 
appalling. 

"  Why  do  you  hate  them  ? "  asked 
IJrandon,  whose  curiosity  was  excited. 

"  My  brother's  blood  was  shed  by 
them,  and  a  Malay  never  forgives.  Yet  I 
have  never  found  the  man  I  sought.  If  I 
had  found  him  I  would  not  have  killed 
any  more." 

"  The  man — what  man  ?  " 

"The  one  whom  I  have  sought  for 
fifteen  years  through  all  these  seas,"  said 
the  other  hoarsely. 

"  What  is  his  name  ?  " 

"  I  will  not  speak  it.  I  had  it  carved 
on  my  creese,  which  hangs  around  my 
neck." 

Brandon  thrust  his  hand  into  the 
bosom  of  the  Malay  where  he  saw  a  cord 
which  passed  around  his  neck.  He  drew 
forth  a  creese,  and  holding  it  up  saw  this 
name  cut  upon  the  handle :  "  JOHN 
POTTS." 

The  change  that  came  over  the  severe, 
impassive  face  of  Brandon  was  so  extra- 
ordinary that  even  Zangorri  in  his  pain 
and  fury  saw  it.  He  uttered  an  exclama- 
tion. The  brow  of  Brandon  grew  as 
black  as  night,  his  nostrils  quivered,  his 
eyes  seemed  to  blaze  with  a  terrific  lustre, 
nnd  a  slight  foam  spread  itself  over  his 
quivering  lips.  But  he  commanded  him- 
self by  a  violent  effort. 

He  looked   all  around.      The  sailors 

•^ere  busy  with  the  captain,  who  still  lay 
senseless.  No  one  observed  him.  He 
turned  to  Zangorri. 

"  This  shall  be  mine,"  said  he,  and  he 
threw  the  rord  around  his  own  neck,  and 
put  the  creese  under  his  waistcoat.  But 
the  sharp  eye  of  the  Malay  had  been 
watching  him,  and  as  he  raised  his  arm 
carelessly  to  put  the  weapon  where  he 
(lesire(},  he  thoughtlessly  loosed  bis  bold. 


That  instant  Zangorri  took  advantage 
of  it.  By  a  tremendous  effort  he  dis- 
engaged himself  and  bounded  to  his  feet. 
The  next  instant  he  was  at  the  taffrail. 
One  hasty  glance  all  around  showed  him 
all  that  he  wished  to  see.  Another 
moment  and  he  was  beneath  the  water. 
Brandon  had  been  taken  unawares,  and 
the  Malay  was  in  the  water  before  he 
could  think.  But  he  drew  his  revolver, 
in  which  there  yet  remained  two  shots, 
and,  stepping  to  the  taffrail,  watched  for 
Zangorri  to  reappear. 

During  the  fight  a  change  had  come 
over  the  scene.  The  fog  had  begun  to  be 
dissipated  and  a  wider  horizon  appeared. 
As  Brandon  looked  he  saw  two  vessels 
upon  the  smooth  surface  of  the  sea. 
One  was  the  Falcon.  The  other  was  a 
large  Malay  proa.  On  the  decks  of  this 
last  was  a  crowd  of  men,  perhaps  about 
fifty  in  number,  who  stood  looking  to- 
ward the  ship  where  the  fight  had  been. 
The  sweeps  were  out,  and  they  were 
preparing  to  move  away.  But  the  escape 
of  Zangorri  had  aroused  thetn,  and  they 
were  evidently  waiting  to  see  the  result. 
That  result  lay  altogether  at  the  disposal 
of  the  man  with  the  revolver,  who  stood 
at  the  stern  from  which  Zangorri  had 
leaped. 

And  now  Zangorri's  head  appeared 
above  the  waves,  while  he  took  a  long 
breath  ere  he  plunged  again.  The  re- 
volver covered  him.  In  a  moment  a 
bullet  could  have  plunged  into  his  brain. 
But  Brandon  did  not  fire.  He  could 
not.  It  was  too  cold-blooded.  True, 
Zangorri  was  sta'ned  with  countless 
crimes ;  but  all  his  crimes  at  that  moment 
were  forgotten ;  he  did  not  appear  as 
Zangorri,  *he  merciless  pirate,  but  simply 
as  a  woumied  wretch,  trying  to  escape 
from  death,  .^hat  death  Brandon  could 
not  def^l  him, 


*   i  » 


■^^  4.. 

CD 


il — - 
CO 


58 

The  sailors  were  still  intent  upon  the 
captain,  whose  state  was  critical,  and 
Brandon  alone  watched  the  Malay.  Soon 
he  saw  those  on  board  the  proa  send 
down  a  boat  and  row  quickly  toward 
him.  They  reached  him,  dragged  him 
on  board,  and  then  rowed  back. 

Brandon  turned  away.  As  yet  no  one 
had  been  in  the  cabin.  He  hurried 
thither  to  see  if  perchance  anyone  was 
there  who  might  be  saved. 

He  entered  the  cabin.  The  first  look 
which  he  gave  disclosed  a  sight  which 
was  enough  to  chill  the  blood  of  the 
stoutest  heart  that  ever  beat. 

All  around  the  cabin  lay  human  bodies 
distorted  by  the  agonies  of  death,  twisted 
and  twined  in  different  attitudes,  and 
still  lying  in  the  position  in  which  death 
had  found  them. 

One,  whose  appearance  showed  him 
to  be  the  captain,  lay  grasping  the  hair 
of  a  Malay,  with  his  sword  through  his 
enemy's  heart,  while  a  knife  still  re- 
mained buried  in  his  own.  Another  lay 
with  his  head  cut  open  ;  another  with  his 
face  torn  by  the  explosion  of  a  gun.  There 
were  four  whites  here  and  about  ten  Ma- 
lays, all  dead.  But  the  fourth  white  was 
a  woman,  who  lay  dead  in  front  of  a  door 
that  led  to  an  inner  caui.i,  and  which  was 
now  closed.  The  woman  appeared  to  be 
about  fifty  years  of  age,  her  venerable 
gray  hair  was  stained  with  blood,  and  her 
hand  clutched  the  arm  of  a  Malay  who  lay 
dead  by  her  side. 

While  Brandon  stood  looking  at  this 
sight  he  became  aware  of  a  movement  in 
a  corner  of  the  cabin  where  there  were 
five  or  six  bodies  heaped  together.  He 
hurried  over  to  the  place,  and,  pulling 
away  the  bodies  of  several  Malays,  found 
at  length  a  Hindu  of  large  stature,  in 
whom  life  was  by  no  means  extinct,  for 
he  was  pushing  with  hands  and  feet  and 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


making  faint  efforts  to  rise.  He  had 
been  wounded  in  many  places,  and  was 
now  quite  unconscious. 

Brandon  dragged  away  all  the  bodies, 
laid  him  in  as  easy  a  posture  as  possible, 
and  then  rushed  up  to  the  deck  for  some 
water.  Returning,  he  dashed  it  over  the 
Hindu,  and  bound  up  one  or  two  wounds 
which  seemed  most  dangerous. 

His  care  soon  brought  the  Hindu  to 
consciousness. 

The  man  opened  his  eyes,  looked  upon 
Brandon  first  with  astonishment,  then 
with  speechless  gratitude,  and  clafiping 
his  hand  moaned  faintly,  in  broken 
English  : 

" Bless  de  Lor' !  Sahib!" 

Brandon  hurried  up  on  deck,  and  calling 
some  of  the  sailors  had  the  Hindu  con- 
veyed there.  All  crowded  around  himto 
'  ask  him  questions,  and  gradually  found 
;  out  about  the  attack  of  the  pirates,  The 
ship  had  been  becalmed  the  day  before, 
'  and  the  Malay  proa  was  in  sight,  evidently 
with  evil  intentions.  They  had  kept  a 
I  good  watch,  and  when  the  fog  came  had 
some  hope  of  escape.  But  the  Malay 
,  boats  had  sought  them  through  the  fog, 
and  had  found  them.  They  had  resisted 
well,  but  were  overpowered  by  numbers, 
The  Hindu  had  been  cook  of  the  ship, 
j  and  had  fought  till  the  last  by  the  side  of 
his  captain. 

Withou.  waiting  to  hear  the  Hindu's 
story  Brandon  went  back  to  the  cabin. 
The  door  that  opened  into  the  inner 
cabin  was  shut.  He  tried  it.  It  was 
locked.  He  looked  into  the  keyhole.  It 
was  locked  from  the  inside. 

"  Is  anyone  there?  "  he  asked. 

A  cry  of  surprise  was  the  sole  answer, 

"  You  are  safe.  We  are  friends, 
Open  !  "  cried   Brandon. 

Then  came  the  sound  of  light  footsteps, 
the  key  was  turned,  the  door  slided  back, 


THE    MALAY    PIRATE 


59 


and  there  appeared  before  the  astonished 
eves  of  Brandon  a  young  girl,  who,  the 
iiioi.'icnt  that  she  saw  him,  flung  herself 
on  lu  r  knees  in  a  transport  of  gratitude 
and  raised  her  face  to  Heaven,  while  her 
lips  Littered  inaudible  words  of  thanks- 
giving. 

Siie  was  quite  a  young  girl,  with  a  deli- 
cate, slender  frame,  and  features  of  ex- 
treme loveliness.  Her  complexion  was 
singularly  colorless.  Her  eyes  were  large, 
dark,  and  luminous.  Her  hair  fell  in  rich 
masses  over  her  shoulders.  In  one  hand 
she  held  a  knife,  to  which  she  clung  with 
a  deathlike  tenacity. 

"  Poor  child !  "  murmured  Brandon,  in 
accents  of  tenderest  commiseration.  "  It 
is  but  little  that  you  could  do  with  that 
knife." 

She  looked  up  at  him  as  she  knelt,  then 
looked  at  the  keen,  glittering  steel,  and, 
with  a  solemnity  of  accent  which  showed 
how  deeply  she  was  in  earnest,  mur- 
mured, half  to  herself : 

"  It  could  at  least  have  saved  me  !  " 

Brandon  smiled  upon  her  with  such  a 
smile  as  a  father  might  give  at  seeing  the 
spirit  or  prowess  of  some  idolized  son. 

"There  is  no  need,"  he  said,  with  a 
voice  of  deep  feeling,  "  there  is  no  need 
of  that  now.  You  are  saved.  You  are 
avenged.  Come  with  me."  The  girl 
rose.  "  But  wait,"  said  Brandon,  and  he 
looked  at  her  earnestly  and  most  pity- 
ingly. '<  There  are  things  here  which 
you  should  not  see.  Will  you  shut  your 
eyes  and  let  me  lead  you  ?  " 

"  I  can  bear  it,"  said  the  girl.  "  I  will 
not  shut  my  eyes." 

"  You  must,"  said  Brandon  firmly,  but 
still  pityingly,  for  he  thought  of  that  ven- 
erable woman  who  lay  in  blood  outside 
the  door.  The  girl  looked  at  him  and 
seemed  at  first  as  though  about  to  refuse. 
There  was  something  in  his  face  so  full 


of  compassion,  and  entreaty,  and  calm 
control  that  she  consented.  She  closed 
her  eyes  and  held  out  her  hand.  Bran- 
don took  it  and  led  her  through  the  place 
of  horror  and  up  to  the  deck. 

Her  appearance  was  greeted  by  a  cry 
of  joy  from  all  the  sailors.  The  girl 
looked  around.  She  saw  the  Malays 
lying  dead  upon  the  deck.  She  saw  the 
ship  that  had  rescued,  and  the  proa  that 
had  terrified  her.  But  she  saw  no  fa- 
miliar face. 

She  turned  to  Brandon  with  a  face  of 
horror,  and  with  white  lips  asked : 

"  Where  are  they  all  ?  " 

"  Gone,"  said  Brandon. 

"  What !    All  ?  "  gasped  the  girl. 

"  All — except  yourself  and  the  cook." 

She  shuddered  from  head  to  foot ;  at 
last,  coming  closer  to  Brandon,  she 
whispered  :  "  And  my  nurse  ?  " 

Brandon  said  nothing,  but,  with  a  face 
full  of  meaning,  pointed  upward.  The 
girl  understood  him.  She  reeled,  and 
would  have  fallen  had  not  Brandon  sup- 
ported her.  Then  she  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands,  and  staggered  away  to  a 
seat,  sank  down,  and  wept  bitterly. 

All  were  silent.  Even  the  rough  sailors 
respected  that  grief.  Rough  !  Who  does 
not  know  that  sailors  are  often  the  most 
tender-hearted  of  men,  and  always  the 
most  impulsive,  and  most  quick  to  sym- 
pathy ? 

So  now  they  said  nothing,  but  stood  in 
groups  sorrowing  in  her  sorrow.  The 
captain,  meanwhile,  had  revived,  and  was 
already  on  his  feet  looking  around  upon 
the  scene.  The  Hindu  also  had  gained 
strength  with  every  throb  of  his  heart  and 
every  breath  of  the  air. 

But  suddenly  a  cry  arose  from  one  of 
the  men  who  stood  nearest  the  hatchway. 

"The  ship  is  sinking!" 

Everyone  started.    Yes,  the  Srbip  was 


^-» 


-:»"» 


CO 


■■■■^*mm 


6o 


CORD   AND  CREESE 


sinking.  No  one  had  noticed  it ;  but  the 
water  was  already  within  a  few  feet  of 
the  top.  No  doubt  Zangorri  had  been 
scuttling  her  when  he  rushed  out  of  the 
hold  at  the  noise  of  the  attack. 

There  was  nothing  left  but  to  hasten 
away.  There  was  time  to  save  nothing. 
The  bodies  of  the  dead  had  to  be  left 
with  the  ship  for  their  tomb.  In  a  short 
time  they  had  all  hurried  into  the  boat 
and  were  pulling  away.  But  not  too 
soon.  For  scarcely  had  they  pulled  away 
half  a  dozen  boat-lengths  from  the  ship 
when  the  water,  which  had  been  rising 
higher  and  higher,  more  rapidly  every 
moment,  rushed  madly  with  a  final  onset 
to  secure  its  prey ;  and  with  a  groan  like 


that  of  some  living  thing  the  ship  went 
down. 

A  yell  came  from  over  the  water.  It 
rose  from  the  Malay  proa,  which  was 
moving  away  as  fast  as  the  long  sweeps 
could  carry  her.  But  the  dead  were  not 
revenged  only.  They  were  remembeixd. 
Not  long  after  reaching  the  Falcon  the 
sailors  were  summoned  to  the  side  wliich 
looked  toward  the  spot  where  the  ship 
had  sunk,  and  the  solenm  voice  of 
Brandon  read  the  burial  service  of  the 
Church. 

And  as  he  read  that  service  he  under- 
stood the  fate  which  he  had  escaped 
when  the  ship  passed  Coffin  Island  with- 
out  noticing  his  signal. 


CHAPTER  X 


BEATRICE 


It  was  natural  that  a  young  girl  who 
had  gone  through  so  fearful  an  ordeal 
should  for  some  time  feel  its  effects.  Her 
situation  excited  the  warmest  sympathy 
of  all  on  board  the  ship  ;  and  her  appear- 
ance was  such  as  might  inspire  a  chival- 
rous respect  in  the  hearts  of  those  rough 
but  kindly  and  sensitive  sailors  who  had 
taken  part  in  her  rescue. 

Her  whole  appearance  marked  her  as 
one  of  no  common  order.  There  was 
about  her  an  air  of  aristocratic  grace 
which  inspired  involuntary  respect ;  an 
elegance  of  manner  and  complete  self- 
possession  which  marked  perfect  breed- 
ing. Added  to  this,  her  face  had  some- 
thing which  is  greater  even  than  beauty 
— or  at  least  something  VMthout  which 
beauty  itself  is  feeble — namely,  character 
and  expression.    Her  soul  spoke  out  in 


every  lineament  of  her  noble  features,  and 
threw  a.ound  her  the  charm  of  spiritual 
exaltation. 

To  such  a  charm  as  this  Brandon  did 
not  seem  indifferent.  His  usual  self- 
abstraction  seemed  to  desert  him  for  a 
time.  The  part  that  he  had  taken  in  her 
rescue  of  itself  formed  a  tie  between 
them  ;  but  there  was  another  bond  in  the 
fact  that  he  alone  of  all  on  board  could 
associate  with  her  on  equal  terms,  as  a 
high-bred  gentleman  with  a  high-bred 
lady. 

The  Hindu  had  at  once  found  occupa- 
tion, for  Brandon,  who  had  seen  the  stuff 
that  was  in  him,  offered  to  take  him  for 
his  servant.  He  said  that  his  name  was 
Assgeelo,  but  he  was  commonly  called 
Cato,  and  preferred  that  name  to  any 
other.    He    regarded    Brandon    as   his 


BEATRICE 


6l 


saviour,  with  all  the  superstition  which 
Hindus  can  feel,  and  looked  up  to  this 
saviour  as  a  superior  being.  The  offer  of 
employment  was  eagerly  accepted,  and 
Cato  at  once  entered  upon  the  few  duties 
which  his  situation  could  require  on  ship- 
board. 

Meanwhile  the  young  lady  remained 
unknown.  At  first  she  spent  the  greater 
part  of  her  time  in  her  room,  and  only 
came  out  at  meal-times,  when  the  sadness 
of  her  face  prevented  anything  except  the 
most  distant  and  respectful  courtesy. 
No  one  knew  her  name,  and  no  one  asked 
it.  Cato  was  ignorant  of  it.  She  and  the 
old  nurse  had  only  been  known  to  him  as 
the  young  missus  and  the  old  missus. 

Brandon,  roused  from  his  indifference, 
did  all  in  his  power  to  mitigate  the  gloom 
of  this  fair  young  creature,  whom  fate 
had  thrown  in  his  way.  He  found  that 
his  attentions  were  not  unacceptable.  At 
length  she  came  out  more  frequently,  and 
they  became  companions  on  the  quarter- 
deck. 

Brandon  was  touched  by  the  exhibition 
which  she  had  made  of  her  gratitude  to 
himself.  She  persisted  in  regarding  him 
alone  as  the  one  to  whom  she  owe'  her 
life,  and  apologized  to  him  for  her  selfish- 
ness in  giving  way  so  greatly  to  her  grief. 
After  a  time  she  ventured  to  tell  him  the 
story  of  the  voyage  which  she  had  been 
making.  She  was  on  her  way  from 
China  to  England.  Her  father  lived  in 
England,  but  she  had"  passed  her  life  in 
Hong  Kong,  having  been  brought  up 
there  by  the  old  nurse,  who  had  accom- 
panied her  on  her  voyage  until  that  fear- 
ful calamity. 

She  told  him  at  different  times  that  her 
father  was  a  merchant  ;vho  had  business 
all  over  the  world,  ?»nd  that  he  had  of 
late  taken  up  his  station  in  his  own  home 
and  sent  for  her. 


Of  her  father  she  did  not  say  much,  and 
did  not  seem  to  know  much.  She  had 
never  seen  him.  She  had  been  in  Hong 
Kong  ever  since  she  could  remember. 
She  believed,  however,  that  she  was  born 
in  England,  but  did  not  know  for  certain. 
Her  nurse  had  not  known  her  till  she  had 
gone  to  China. 

It  was  certainly  a  curious  life,  but  quite 
natural,  when  a  busy  merchant  devotes 
all  his  thoughts  to  business,  and  but  little 
attention  to  his  family.  She  had  no 
mother,  but  thought  she  must  have  died 
in  India.  Yet  she  was  not  sure.  Of  all 
this,  however,  she  expected  to  hear  when 
she  reached  home  and  met  her  father. 

By  the  time  that  she  had  been  a  month 
on  board  Brandon  knew  much  of  the 
events  of  her  simple  life.  He  saw  the 
strange  mixture  of  fear  and  longing  with 
which  she  looked  forward  to  a  meeting 
with  her  father.  He  learned  that  she  had 
a  brother,  also,  whom  she  had  never  seen, 
for  her  father  kept  his  son  with  himself. 
He  could  not  help  looking  with  inex- 
pressible pity  on  one  so  lovely,  yet  so 
neglected. 

Otherwise,  as  far  as  mere  money  was 
concerned,  she  had  never  suffered.  Her 
accomplishments  were  numerous.  She 
was  passionately  fond  of  music,  and  was 
familiar  with  all  the  classic  compositions. 
Her  voice  was  finely  trained,  for  she  had 
enjoyed  the  advantage  of  the  instructions 
of  an  Italian  maestro,  who  had  been 
banished,  and  had  gone  out  to  Hong 
Kong  as  band-master  in  the  Twentieth 
Regiment.  She  could  speak  French 
fluently,  and  had  read  almost  everything. 

Now  after  finding  out  all  this  Brandon 
had  not  found  out  her  name.  Embarrass- 
ments arose  sometimes,  which  she  could 
not  help  noticing,  from  this  very  cause, 
and  yet  she  said  nothing  about  it.  Bran- 
don did  not  like  to  ask  her  abruptly,  since 


>-» 


CD 

CD 
CO 

c.c 


62 


CORD    AND    CREESE 


he  saw  that  she  did  not  respond  to  his 
hints.  So  he  conjectured  ar.d  wondered. 
He  thought  that  her  name  must  be  of  the 
lordliest  kind,  and  that  she  for  some 
reason  wished  to  keep  it  a  secret ;  perhaps 
she  was  noble,  and  did  not  like  to  tell 
that  name  wh'.ch  had  been  staiaed  by  the 
occupations  of  trade.  All  this  Brar<don 
thought. 

Yet  as  he  thought  this,  he  was  not  in- 
sensible to  the  music  of  her  soft,  low 
voice,  the  liquid  tenderness  of  her  eye, 
and  the  charm  of  her  manner.  She 
seemed  at  once  to  confide  herself  to 
him— to  own  the  superiority  of  his  nature, 
and  seek  shelter  in  it.  Circumstances 
threw  them  exclusively  ir.to  one  another's 
way,  and  they  found  each  other  so  con- 
genial that  they  took  advantage  of  r.ir- 
cumstances  to  the  utmost. 

There  were  others  as  wjII  as  Brandon 
who  found  it  awkward  not  to  have  any 
name  by  which  to  address  her,  and  chief 
of  these  was  the  good  captain.  After 
calling  her  ma'am  and  miss  indifferently 
for  about  a  month  he  at  last  determined 
to  ask  her  directly ;  co,  one  day  at  the 
dinner  table,  he  said  : 

"  I  most  humbly  beg  your  pardon, 
ma'am ;  but  I  do  not  know  your  name, 
and  have  never  had  a  chance  *.o  find  it 
out.  If  it's  no  offense,  perhaps  you 
woulil  be  so  good  as  to  tell  it  ? " 

The  young  lady  thus  addressf'd  flushed 
crimson,  then  looked  at  Brandon,  who 
was  gazing  fixedly  on  his  plate,  and  with 
visible  embarrassment  said,  very  softly, 
"  Beatrice." 

"  B.  A.  Treachy,"  said  the  captain. 
"  Ah  !  I  hope,  Miss  Treachy,  you  will 
pa.  Ion  me  ;  but  I  really  found  it  so  ever- 
lasting confusing." 

A  faint  smile  crossed  the  lips  of  Bran- 
don. Pat  Beatrice  did  not  smile.  She 
looked  a  little  frightened,  and  then  said : 


"  Oh,  that  is  only  my  Christian 
name  ! " 

"  Christian  name  !  "  said  the  captain. 
"  How  can  that  be  a  Christian  name  ? " 

"  My  surname  is" —  she  hesitated,  and 
then,  with  an  effort,  pronounced  the  woitl 
"  Potts." 

"  '  Potts  ! '  "  said  the  captain  quickly 
and  with  evident  surprise.  "  Oh — well,  I 
hope  you  will  excuse  me." 

But  the  face  of  Beatrice  turned  to  an 
ashen  hue  as  she  marked  the  effect  which 
the  mention  of  that  name  had  produced 
on  Brandon.  He  had  been  looking  at 
his  plate  like  one  involved  in  thought. 
As  he  heard  the  name  his  head  fell  for- 
ward, and  he  caught  at  the  table  to 
steady  himself.  He  then  rose  abruptly 
with  a  cloud  upon  his  brow,  his  lips 
firmly  pressed  together,  and  his  wlcole 
face  seemingly  transformed,  and  hurried 
from  the  cabin. 

She  did  not  see  him  again  for  a  week, 
He  pleaded  illness,  shut  himself  in  his 
state-room,  and  was  seen  by  no  one  but 
Cato. 

Beatrice  could  not  help  associating  this 
change  in  Brandon  with  the  knowledge 
of  her  name.  That  name  was  hateful  to 
herself.  A  fastidious  taste  had  prevented 
her  from  volunteering  to  tell  it ;  and  as 
no  one  asked  her  directly  it  had  not  been 
known.  And  now,  since  she  had  told  it, 
this  was  the  result. 

For  Brandon's  conduct  she  could 
imagine  only  one  cause.  He  had  felt 
shocked  at  such  a  plebeian  name. 

The  fact  that  she  herself  hated  her 
name,  and  saw  keenly  how  ridiculously  it 
sounded  after  such  r  name  as  Beatrice, 
only  made  her  feel  the  more  indignant 
with  Brandon.  "  His  own  name,"  she 
thought  bitterly,  "  is  plebeian— not  so  bad 
as  mine,  it  is  true,  yet  still  it  is  plebeian. 
Why    should    he  feel     so    shocked    at 


BEATRICE 


63 


mine?"  Of  course,  she  knew  him  only 
as  "  Mf.  W-  heeler."  "  Perhaps  he  lias 
imagined  tha*  I  had  some  grand  name, 
and,  learning  my  true  one,  has  lost  his 
illusion.  He  formerly  esteemed  me. 
He  now  despises  me." 

Beatrice  was  cut  to  the  heart ;  but  she 
was  too  proud  to  show  any  feeling  what- 
ever. She  frequented  the  quarter-deck 
as  before ;  though  now  she  had  no  com- 
panion except,  at  turns,  the  good-natured 
captain  and  the  mate.  The  longer  Bran- 
don avoided  her  the  more  mdignant  she 
felt.  Her  outraged  pride  made  sadness 
impossible. 

Brandon  remained  in  the  state-room 
for  about  two  weeks  altogether.  When 
at  length  he  made  his  appearance  on 
the  quarter-deck  he  found  Beatrice 
there  who  greeted  him  with  a  distant 
bow. 

There  was  a  sadness  in  his  face,  as  he 
approached  and  took  a  seat  near  her, 
which  at  once  disarmed  her,  drove  away 
all  indignation,  and  aroused  pity. 

"  You  have  been  sick,"  she  said 
kindly,  and  with  some  "motion. 

"  Yes,"  said  Brandon,  in  a  low  voice, 
"  but  now  that  I  am  able  to  go  about 
again  my  first  act  is  to  apologize  to  you 
(or  my  rudeness  in  quitting  the  table  so 
abruptly  as  to  make  it  seem  like  a  per- 
sonal insult  to  you.  Now  I  hope  you 
will  believe  me  when  I  say  that  an  insult 
to  you  from  me  is  impossible.  Some- 
thing- like  a  spasm  passed  over  my 
nervous  system,  and  I  had  to  hurry  to 
my  room." 

"  I  confess,"  said  Beatrice  frankly, 
"that  I  thought  your  sudden  departure 
had  something  to  do  with  the  conversa- 
tion about  me.  I  am  very  sorry  indeed 
that  I  did  you  such  a  wrong ;  I  might 
have  icflown  you  better.  Will  you  for- 
give me  ?  " 


Brandon  smiled  faintly.  "  You  are 
the  one  who  must  forgive." 

"  But  I  hate  my  name  so ! "  burst  out 
Beatrice.    Brandon  said  nothing. 

"  Don't  you  }     Now  confess." 

"  How  can  I  ?  "  he  began. 

"You  do,  you  do!"  she  cried  vehe- 
mently :  "  but  I  don't  care — for  I  hate  it." 

Brandon  looked  at  her  with  a  sad, 
weary  smile,  and  said  nothing.  "  You 
are  sick,"  she  said ;  "  I  am  thoughtless. 
I  see  that  my  name,  in  some  way  or  other, 
recalls  painful  thoughts.  How  wretched 
it  is  for  me  to  give  pain  to  others  !  " 

Brandon  looked  at  her  appealingly, 
and  said,  "  You  give  pain  ?  Believe  me ! 
believe  me!  there  is  nothing  but  happi- 
ness where  you  are." 

At  this  Beatrice  looked  confused  and 
changed  the  conv<.rsation.  There  seemed 
after  this  to  be  a  mutual  understanding 
between  the  two  to  avoid  the  subject  of 
her  name,  and  although  it  was  a  constant 
mortification  to  Beatrice,  yet  she  believed 
that  on  his  part  there  was  no  contempt 
for  the  name,  but  something  very  differ- 
ent, something  associated  with  bitter 
memories. 

They  now  resumed  their  old  walks  and 
conversations.  Every  day  bound  them 
more  closely  to  one  another,  and  each 
took  it  for  granted  that  the  other  would 
be  the  constant  companion  of  every  hour 
in  the  day. 

Both  had  lived  unusual  lives.  Beatrice 
had  much  to  say  about  her  Hong  Kong 
life,  the  Chinese,  the  British  officers,  and 
the  festivities  of  garrison  life.  Brandon 
had  lived  for  years  in  Australia,  and  was 
familiar  with  all  the  round  of  events 
which  may  be  met  with  in  that  country. 
He  had  been  born  in  England,  and  had 
lived  there,  as  has  already  been  mentioned, 
till  he  was  almost  a  man,  so  that  he  had 
much  to  say  about  that  mother-land  con- 


a:; 

en 


;-.«••' 


■•••1. 


64 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


cerning  which  Beatrice  felt  such  curiosity. 
Thus  they  settled  down  again  naturally 
and  inevitably  into  constant  association 
with  each  other. 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  thoughts 
of  Brandon  during  the  fortnight  of  his 
seclusion,  or  whatever  may  have  been  the 
conclusion  to  which  he  came,  he  care- 
fully refrained  from  ♦he  most  remote  hint 
at  the  home  or  the  prospects  of  Beatrice. 
He  found  her  on  the  seas,  and  he  was 
content  to  take  her  as  she  was.  Her 
name  was  a  common  one.  She  might  be 
connected  with  his  enemy,  or  she  might 
not.  For  his  part,  he  did  not  wish  to 
know. 

Beatrice  also  showed  equal  care  in 
avoiding  the  subject.  The  effect  which 
had  been  produced  by  the  mention  of  her 
name  was  still  remembered,  and,  what- 
ever the  cause  may  have  been,  both  this 
and  her  own  strong  dislike  to  it  pre- 
vented her  from  ever  making  any  allusion 
either  to  her  father  or  to  any  one  of  her 
family.  She  had  no  scruples,  however, 
about  talking  of  her  Hong  Kong  life,  in 
which  one  person  seemed  to  have 
figured  most  prominently — a  man  who 
had  lived  there  for  years,  and  given  her 
instruction  in  music.  He  was  an  Italian, 
of  whom  she  knew  nothing  whatever  but 
his  name,  with  the  exception  of  the  fact 
that  he  had  been  unfortunate  in  Europe, 
and  had  come  out  to  Hong  Kong  as 
band-master  of  the  Twentieth  Regiment. 
His  name  was  Paolo  Langhetti. 

"  Do  you  like  music  ?  "  asked  Brandon 
abruptly. 

"  Above  all  things,"  said  Beatrice,  with 
an  intensity  of  emphasis  which  spoke  of 
deep  feeling. 

"  Do  you  play  ?  " 

"  Somewhat." 

"  Do  you  sing  ?  " 

"  A  little.    I  was  considered  a  good 


singer  in  Hong  Kong ;  but  that  is  nothing. 
I  sang  in  the  cathedral.  Langhetti  was 
kind  enough  to  praise  me ;  but  then  he 
was  so  fond  of  me  that  whatever  I  did 
was  right." 

Brandon  was  silent  for  a  little  whi;  > 
"  Langhetti  was  fond  of  you  ?  "  he  re- 
peated interrogatively,  and  in  a  voice  of 
singular  sweetness. 

"  Very,"  returned  Beatrice  musingly. 
"  He  always  called  me  'Bice  ' — sometimes 
'  Bicetta,' '  Bicinola,'  '  Bicina  ' ;  it  was  his 
pretty  Italian  way.  But  oh,  if  you  could 
hear  him  play !  He  could  make  the 
violin  speak  like  a  human  voice.  He 
used  to  think  in  music.  He  seemed  to 
me  to  be  hardly  human  sometimes." 

"And  he  lovtd  to  hear  you  sing?" 
said  Brandon,  in  the  same  voice. 

"  He  used  to  praise  me,"  said  Beatrici 
meekly.  "  His  praise  used  to  gratify, 
but  it  did  not  deceive  me.  I  am  not  con- 
ceited, Mr.  Wheeler." 

"  Would  you  sing  for  me  ?  "  asked 
Brandon,  in  accents  almost  of  entreaty, 
looking  a.  her  with  an  imploring  ex- 
pression. 

Beatrice's  head  fell.  "Not  now— not 
yet — not  here,"  she  murmured,  with  a 
motion  of  her  hand.  "  Wait  till  we  pass 
beyond  this  ocean.    It  seems  haunted." 

Brandon  understood  her  tone  and 
gesture. 

But  the  weeks  passed,  and  the  months, 
and  they  went  over  the  seas,  touching  at 
Mauritius,  and  afterward  at  Cape  Town, 
till  finally  they  entered  the  Atlantic  Ocean, 
and  sailed  north.  During  all  this  time 
their  association  was  close  and  continu- 
ous. In  her  presence  Brandon  softened ; 
the  sternness  of  his  features  relaxed,  and 
the  great  purpose  of  his  life  grew  gradu- 
ally fainter. 

One  evening,  after  they  had  entered 
the  Atlantic  Ocean,  they  were  standing 


BEATRICE 


h 


7      '  I 


.  ) 


by  the  stern  of  the  ship  looking  at  the 
waters,  when  Brandon  repeated  his 
request. 

"  Would  you  be  willing  to  sing  now  ?  " 
he  asked  gently,  and  in  the  same  tone 
of  entreaty  which  he  had  used  be- 
fore. 

Beatrice  looked  at  him  for  a  moment 
without  speaking.  Then  she  raised  her 
face  and  looked  up  at  the  sky.  with  a 
deep  abstraction  in  her  eyes,  as  though 
in  thought.  Her  face,  usually  colorless, 
now,  in  the  moonlight,  looked  like  mar- 
ble ;  her  dark  hair  hung  in  peculiar  folds 
over  her  brow — an  arrangement  which 
was  antique  in  its  style,  and  gave  her  the 
look  of  a  statue  of  one  of  the  Muses. 
Her  straight  Grecian  features,  large  eyes, 
thin  lips,  and  well-rounded  chin — all  had 
the  same  classic  air,  and  Brandon,  as  he 
looked  at  her,  wondered  if  she  knew  how 
fair  she  was.  She  stood  for  a  moment  in 
silence,  and  then  began.  It  was  a  mar- 
vellous and  a  memorable  epoch  in  Bran- 
don's life.  The  scene  around  added  its 
inspiration  to  the  voice  of  the  singer. 
The  ocean  spread  afar  away  before  them 
till  the  verge  of  the  horizon  seemed  to 
blend  sea  and  sky  together.  Overhead 
the  dim  sky  hung,  dotted  with  innumer- 
able stars,  prominent  among  which,  not 
far  above  the  horizon,  gleamed  that  glori- 
ous constellation,  the  Southern  Cross. 
Beatrice,  who  hesitated  for  a  moment  as 
if  to  decide  upon  her  song,  at  last  caught 
her  idea  from  this  scene  around  her,  and 
began  one  of  the  most  magnificent  of 
Italian  compositions  : 

"I  cieli  immensi  narrano 
Del  grand'  Iddio  la  gloria." 

Her  first  notes  poured  forth  with  a  sweet- 
ness and  fulness  that  arrested  the  atten- 
tion of  all  on  board  the  ship.  It  was  the 
first  time  she  had  sung,  as  she  afterward 


said,  since  Langhetti  had  left  Hong  Kong, 
and  she  gave  herself  entirely  up  to  the 
joy  of  song.  Her  voice,  long  silent, 
instead  of  having  been  injured  by  the 
sorrow  through  which  she  had  passed, 
was  pure,  full,  marvellous,  and  thrilling, 
A  glow  like  some  divine  inspiration 
passed  over  the  marble  beauty  of  her 
classic  features;  her  eyes  themselves 
seemed  to  speak  of  all  that  glory  of  which 
she  sang,  as  the  sacred  fire  of  genius 
flashed  from  them. 

At  those  wonderful  notes,  so  generous 
and  so  penetrating  with  their  sublime 
meaning,  all  on  board  the  ship  looked 
and  listened  with  amazement.  The 
hands  of  the  steersman  held  the  wheel 
listlessly.  Brandon's  own  soul  was  filled 
with  the  fullest  effects.  He  stood  watch- 
ing her  figure,  with  its  inspired  linea- 
ments, and  thought  of  the  fabled  prodi- 
gies of  music  spoken  of  in  ancient  story. 
He  thought  of  Orpheus  hushing  all  ani' 
mated  nature  to  calm  by  the  magic  of 
his  song.  At  last  all  thoughts  of  his  own 
left  him,  and  nothing  remained  but  that 
which  the  song  of  Beatrice  swept  over 
his  spirit. 

But  Beatrice  saw  nothing  and  heard 
nothing  except  the  scene  before  her,  with 
its  grand  inspiration  and  her  own  utter- 
ance of  its  praise.  Brandon's  own  soul 
was  more  and  more  overcome  ;  the  divine 
voice  thrilled  over  his  heart ;  he  shud- 
dered and  uttered  a  low  sigh  of  rapture. 

"  My  God  !  "  he  exclaimed  as  she 
ended  ;  "  I  never  before  heard  anything 
like  this.  I  never  dreamed  of  such  a 
thing.  Is  there  on  earth  another  such  a 
voice  as  yours?  Will  I  ever  again  hear 
anything  like  it  ?  Your  song  is  like  a 
voice  from  those  heavens  of  which  you 
sing.     It  is  a  new  revelation." 

He  poured  forth  these  words  with 
passionate  impetuosity.    Beatrice  smiled. 


^S-MM 


'::.:» 


66 


CORD    AND    CREESE 


"  Langhetti  used  to  praise  me,"  she 
simply  rejoined. 

"  You  terrify  me,"  said  he. 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Beatrice,  in  wonder. 

"  Because  your  song  works  upon  me 
like  a  spell,  and  all  my  soul  sinks  away, 
and  all  my  will  is  weakened  to  nothing- 
ness." 

Beatrice  looked  at  him  with  a  mourn- 


ful smile.  "  Then  you  have  the  true 
passion  for  music,"  she  said,  "  if  this  be 
so.  For  my  part  it  is  the  joy  of  my  life, 
and  I  hope  to  give  up  all  my  life  to 
it." 

"  Do  you  expect  to  see  Langhetti  when 
you  reach  England  ?  "  asked  Brandon 
abruptly. 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  she  musingly. 


CHAPTER  XI 


THE    IMPROVISATORE 


The  character  of  Beatrice  unfolded 
more  and  more  every  day,  and  every  new 
development  excited  the  wonder  of 
Brandon. 

She  said  once  that  music  was  to  her 
like  the  breath  of  life,  and  indeed  it 
seemed  to  be ;  for  now,  since  Brandon 
had  witnessed  her  powers,  he  noticed 
how  all  her  thoughts  took  a  coloring 
from  this.  What  most  surprised  him 
was  her  profound  acquirements  in  the 
more  difficult  branches  of  the  art.  It 
was  not  merely  the  case  of  a  great  natural 
gift  of  voice.  Her  whole  soul  seemed 
imbued  with  those  subtle  influences 
which  music  can  most  of  all  bestow. 
Her  whole  life  seemed  to  have  been 
passed  in  one  long  intercourse  with  the 
greatest  works  of  the  greatest  masters. 
All  their  works  were  perfectly  well  known 
to  her.  A  marvellous  memory  enabled 
her  to  have  their  choicest  productions 
at  command  ;  and  Brandon,  who  in  the 
early  part  of  his  life  had  received  a  care- 
ful musical  education,  knew  enough  about 
it  to  estimate  rightly  the  full  extent  of  the 
genius  of  his  companion,  and  to  be  aston- 
ished thereat. 


Her  mind  was  also  full  of  stories  about 
the  lives,  acts,  and  words  of  the  great 
masters.  For  her  they  formed  the  only 
world  with  which  she  cared  to  be  ac- 
quainted, and  the  only  heroes  whom  she 
had  power  to  admire.  All  this  flowed 
from  one  profound  central  feeling— 
namely,  a  deep  and  all-absorbing  love  of 
this  most  divine  art.  To  her  it  was  more 
than  art.  It  was  a  new  faculty  to  liim 
who  possessed  it.  It  was  the  highest 
power  of  utterance— such  utterance  as 
belongs  to  the  angels  ;  such  utterance  as, 
when  possessed  by  man,  raises  him  al- 
most to  an  equality  with  them. 

Brandon  found  out  everyday  some  new 
power  in  her  genius.  Now  her  voice 
was  unloosed  from  the  bonds  which  she 
had  placed  upon  it.  She  sang,  she  said, 
because  it  was  better  than  talkinjj. 
Words  were  weak — song  was  all  expres- 
sion. Nor  was  it  enough  for  her  to  take 
the  compositions  of  others.  Those  were 
infinitely  better,  she  said,  than  anything 
which  she  could  produce  ;  but  each  one 
must  have  his  own  native  expression ;  and 
there  were  times  when  she  had  to  sing 
from  herself.    To  Brandon  this  seemed 


THE    IMPROVISATORE 


67 


the  most  amazing  of  her  powers.  In 
Italy  the  power  of  improvisation  is  not 
uncommon,  and  Englishmen  generally 
imagine  that  this  is  on  account  of  some 
peculiar  quality  of  the  Italian  language. 
This  is  not  the  case.  One  can  improvise 
in  any  language ;  and  Brandon  found 
that  Beatrice  could  do  this  with  the 
English. 

"  It  is  not  wonderful,"  said  she,  in  an- 
swer to  his  expression  of  astonishment, 
"it  is  not  even  difficult.  There  is  an  art 
in  doing  this,  but,  when  you  once  know 
it,  you  find  no  trouble.  It  is  rhythmic 
prose  in  a  series  of  lines.  Each  line 
must  contain  a  thought.  Langhetti 
found  no  difficulty  in  making  rhyming 
lines,  but  rhymes  are  not  necessary. 
This  rhythmic  prose  is  as  poetic  as  any- 
thing can  be.  All  the  hymns  of  the  Greek 
Church  are  written  on  this  principle.  So 
are  the  Te  Deum  and  the  Gloria.  So 
were  all  the  Ancient  Jewish  psalms.  The 
Jews  improvised.  I  suppose  Deborah's 
song,  and  perhaps  Miriam's,  are  of  this 
order." 

"  And  you  think  the  art  can  be  learned 
by  everyone  ?  " 

"  No,  not  by  everyone.  One  n.ust 
have  a  quick  and  vivid  imagination, 
and  natural  fluency — but  these  are  all. 
Genius  makes  all  the  difference  between 
what  is  good  and  what  is  bad.  Some- 
times you  have  a  song  of  Miriam  that 
lives  while  the  world  lasts,  sometimes 
a  poor  little  song  like  one  of  mine." 

"Sing  to  me  about  music,"  said  Bran- 
don suddenly. 

Beatrice  immediately  began  an  impro- 
visation. But  the  music  to  which  she 
sang  was  lofty  and  impressive,  and  the 
marvellous  sweetness  of  her  voice  pro- 
duced an  indescribable  effect.  And 
again,  as  always  when  she  sang,  the 
fashion  of  her  face  was  changed,  and 


she  became  transfigured  before  his  eyes. 
It  was  the  same  rhythmic  prose  of  which 
she  had  been  speaking,  sung  according  to 
the  mode  in  which  the  Gloria  is  chanted, 
and  divided  into  bars  of  equal  time. 

Brandon,  as  always,  yielded  to  the 
spell  of  hev  song.  To  him  it  was  an 
incantation.  Her  own  strains  varied  to 
express  the  changing  sentiment,  and  at 
last,  as  the  song  ended,  it  seemed  to  die 
away  in  melodious  melancholy,  like  the 
dying  strain  of  the  fabled  swan. 

"Sing  on!"  he  exclaimed  fervently; 
"  I  would  wish  to  stand  and  hear  your 
voice  forever 

A  smile  of  ineffable  sweetness  came 
over  her  face.  She  looked  at  him,  and 
said  nothing.  Brandon  bowed  his  head, 
and  stood  in  silence. 

Thus  ended  many  of  their  interviews. 
Slowly  and  steadily  this  young  g'rl  gained 
over  him  an  ascendency  which  lie  felt 
hourly,  and  which  was  so  strong  vhat  he 
did  not  even  struggle  against  it.  Her 
marvellous  genius,  so  subtle,  so  delicate, 
yet  so  inventive  and  quick,  amazed  him. 
If  he  spoke  of  this,  she  attributed  every- 
thing to  Langhetti.  "  Could  you  but  see 
him,"  she  would  say,  "  I  should  seem 
like  nothing ! " 

"  Has  he  such  a  voice  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  he  has  no  voice  at  all.  It  is  his 
soul,"  she  would  reply.  "  He  speaks 
through  the  violin.  But  he  taught  me  all 
that  I  know.  He  said  my  voice  was  God's 
gift.  He  had  a  strange  theory  that  the 
language  of  heaven  and  of  the  angels  was 
music,  and  that  he  who  loved  it  best  on 
earth  made  his  life  and  his  thoughts  ir.ost 
heavenly." 

"  You  must  have  been  fond  of  such  a 
man." 

"  Very,"  said  Beatrice,  with  the  utmost 
simplicity.    "  Oh,  I  loved  him  so  dearly  !  " 

But  in    this    confession,  so   artlessly 


113 

•MMHMltt 

uz 


'V. 

.;:.'.in 

.'..".as" 


68 


CORD    AND    CREESE 


made,  lira'ulon  saw  only  a  love  that  was 
filial  or  sisterly.  "  He  was  the  first  one," 
said  Beatrice,  "  who  showed  me  the  true 
meaning  of  life.  He  exalted  his  art  above 
all  other  r  rts,  and  always  maintained  that 
it  was  thi  purest  and  best  thing  which 
the  world  possessed.  Tliis  cor.soled  him 
for  exile  poverty,  and  sorrow  of  many 
kinds." 

"  Was  he  married  ?  " 

Beatrice  looked  at  Brandon  with  a 
singular  smile.  "  Married !  Langhetti 
married !  Pardon  me ;  but  the  idea  of 
Langhetti  in  domestic  life  is  so  ridicu- 
lous." 

"  Why  ?  The  greatest  musicians  have 
married." 

Beatrice  looked  up  to  the  sky  with  a 
strange,  serene  smile.  "  Langiietti  has 
no  passion  out  of  art,"  slie  said.  "  As 
an  artist  he  is  all  fire,  and  vehemence, 
and  enthusiasm.  He  is  aware  of  all 
human  passions,  but  only  as  an  artist. 
He  has  only  one  love,  and  that  is  music. 
This  is  his  idol.  He  seems  to  me  him- 
self like  a  song.  But  all  the  raptures 
which  poets  and  novelists  apply  to  lovers 
are  felt  by  him  in  his  music.  He  wants 
nothing  while  he  has  this.  He  thinks 
the  musician's  life  the  highest  life.  He 
says  those  to  wliom  the  revelations  of 
God  were  committed  were  musicians. 
As  David  and  Isaiah  received  inspiration 
to  the  strains  of  the  harp,  so.  he  says, 
have  Bach  and  Mozart,  Handel  and 
Haydn,  Beethoven  and  Mendelssohn. 
And  where,  indeed,"  she  continued,  in 
a  musing  tone,  half  soliloquizing,  "where, 
indeed,  can  man  rise  so  near  heaven  as 
when  he  listens  to  the  inspired  strains  of 
these  lofty  souls?  " 

"  Langhetti,"  said  Brandon,  in  a  low 
voice,  "  does  not  understand  love,  or  he 
would  not  put  music  in  its  place." 

"  Yes,"   said    Beatrice,      "  We    spoke 


once  about  that.  He  has  his  own  ideas, 
which  he  expressed  to  me." 

"What  were  they?  " 

"  I  will  have  to  say  them  as  he  said 
them,"  said  she.  "  For  on  this  theme  he 
had  to  express  himself  in  music." 

Brandon  waited  in  rapt  expectation. 
Beatrice  began  to  sing  : 

"  F.iirest  of  .ill  most  fair, 
Young  Love,  how  comest  thou 

Unto  the  soul  ? 
Still  as  the  evening  breeze 
Over  the  starry  wave — 
The  moonlit  wave — 

"  The  heart  lies  motionless  ; 
So  still,  so  sensitive  ; 

Love  fans  the  breeze. 
Lo  !  at  his  slightest  touch, 
The  myriad  ripples  rise, 

And  murmur  on. 

"  And  ripples  rise  to  waves, 
And  waves  to  rolling  seas, 

Till,  far  and  wid  ", 
The  endless  billows  roll, 
In  undulations  long, 

For  evermore  !  "' 

Her  voice  died  away  into  a  scarce 
audible  tone,  which  sank  into  Brandon  s 
heart,  lingering  and  dying  about  the  last 
word,  with  touching  and  unuttenihk' 
melancholy.  It  was  like  the  lament  o{ 
one  who  loved.  It  was  like  the  cry  o( 
some   yearning   heart. 

In  a  moment  Beatrice  looked  at  Bian- 
don  with  a  swift,  bright  smile.  She  had 
sung  these  words  as  an  artist.  For  a 
moment  Brandon  had  thought  that  she 
was  expressing  her  own  feelings.  But  the 
bright  smile  on  her  face  contrasted  so 
strongly  with  the  melancholy  of  her  voue 
that  he  saw  this  was  not  so. 

"  Thus,"  she  said,  "  Langhetti  sail,;,' 
about  it ;  and  I  have  never  forgotten 
his   words." 

The  thought  came  to  Brandon,  is  it 
not  truer  than  she  thinks,  that  "  she  Inyes 
him  very  dearly  "  ?  as  she  said. 


THE    IMl'ROVISATORE 


69 


"  You  were  born  (o  be  an  artist,"  he 

said  at  last. 

lieatrice  sighed  lightly.  "  'l  hat's  what 
I  never  can  be,  I  am  afraid,"  said  she. 
"  Yet  I  hope  I  may  be  able  to  gratify  my 
love  'or  it.  Art,"  she  continued  nius- 
iiinly,  "  is  open  to  women  as  well  as  to 
men  ;  and  of  all  arts  none  is  so  much 
so  as  music.  The  interpretation  of  great 
masters  is  a  blessing  to  the  world. 
Lan<;lietti  used  to  say  that  these  are  the 
only  ones  of  modern  times  that  have 
received  heavenly  inspiration.  They  cor- 
respond to  the  Jewish  prophets.  He 
used  to  declare  that  the  interpretation  of 
each  was  of  equal  importance.  To  man 
is  given  the  interpretation  of  the  one,  but 
to  women  is  given  the  interpretation  of 
much  of  the  other  Why  is  not  my  voice, 
if  it  is  such  as  he  said,  and  especially  the 
feeling  within  me,  a  Divine  call  to  go 
forth  upon  this  mission  of  interpreting 
the  inspired  utterances  of  the  great  masters 
of  iiKKlern  days  ? 

"  You,"  she  continued,  "  are  a  man, 
and  you  have  a  purpose."  Biandon 
started,  but  she  did  not  notice  it.  "  You 
have  a  purpose  in  life,"  she  repeated. 
"Your  intercourse  with  me  will  iiereafter 
be  but  an  episode  in  the  life  that  is  before 
you.  I  am  a  girl,  but  1  too  may  wish  to 
have  a  purpose  in  li'^e — suited  to  my 
powers  ;  and  if  I  am  iiot  able  to  work 
toward  it  I  shall  not  be  isatisfied." 

"How  do  you  knovv'  that  I  have  a  pur- 
pose, as  you  call  it  ?  "  asked  Brandon, 
after  a  pause. 

"lly  the  expression  of  your  face,  and 
your  whole  manner  when  you  are  alone 
and  subside  into  yourself,"  she  replied 
simply. 

"  And  of  what  kind  ?  "  he  continued. 

"That  1  do  not  seek  to  know,"  she  re- 
plied ;  "  but  I  know  that  it  must  be  deep 
and  ttll-absorbing.    It  seems  to  me  to  be 


too  stern  for  Love  ;  you  are  not  the  man 
to  devote  yourself  to  Avarice  ;  possibly  it 
may  be  Ambition,  yet  somehow  I  do  not 
think  so." 

'*  What  do  you  think  it  is,  then  ?"  asked 
Brandon,  in  a  voice  which  had  died  away, 
alriost  to  a  whisper. 

She  looked  at  him  earnestly  ;  she  looked 
at  him  pityingly.  She  looked  at  him  also 
with  that  sympathy  which  might  be 
evinced  by  one's  Guardian  Angel,  if  that 
Being  might  by  any  chance  become 
visible.  She  leaned  toward  him,  and 
spoke  low  in  a  voice  only  audible  to 
him  : 

"Something  stronger  than  Love,  and 
Avarice,  and  Ambition,"  said  she. 
"  Ther;)  can  be  only  one  thing." 

"  What  ?  " 

"  Vengeance  !  "  she  said,  in  a  voice  of 
inexpressible  mournfulncss. 

Brandon  looked  at  her  wonderingly, 
not  knowing  how  this  young  girl  could 
have  divined  his  thoughts.  He  long 
remained  silent. 

Beatrice  folded  her  hands  together,  and 
looked  pensively  at  the  sea. 

"  You  are  a  marvellous  being,"  said 
Brandon,  at  length.  "Can  you  tell  me 
any  more  ?  " 

"  I  might."  said  she  hesitatingly  ;  "  but 
I  am  afraid  you  will  think  me  imperti- 
nent." 

"  No."  said  Brandon.  "  Tell  me,  for 
perhaps  you  are  mistaken." 

"  You  will  not  think  me  impertinent, 
then  .''  You  will  only  think  that  I  said  so 
because  you  asked  me  ?  " 

"  I  entreat  you  to  believe  that  it  is  im- 
possible for  me  to  think  otherwise  of  you 
than  you  yourself  would  wish." 

"  Shall  I  say  it,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

Her  voice  again  sank  to  a  whisper. 

*'  Your  name  is  not  Wheeler." 


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l«tK«l-4  Mil 

L.1.J 
J....... 

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'CO' 

■i  .1 J 


70 


CORH    AND   CREESE 


Brandon    looked    at    her    earnestly. 
"  How  did  you  learn  that  ?  " 
"  Ey  nothing  more  than  observation." 
"  What  is  my  nan  e  ?  " 
"Ah,  that    is    beyond   my   power  to 
know,"  said  she,  with  a  smile.     "  I  have 
only  discovered  what  you  are  not.     Now 
you  will  not  think  me  a  spy,  will  you  ?  " 
she  continued,  in  a  pleading  voice. 

Brandon  smiled  on  her  mournfully  as 
she  stood  looking  at  him  wi  '"  her  drr'c 
ey;  •..  upr-iised. 

"A  spy  !  "  he  repeated.  '  T<^  ui;  \i  r, 
the  sweetest  thought  co  -leivc' 'l  t!:,  i 
you  could  take  the  trouble  to  nouca  me 
sufficiently."  He  checked  himself  sud- 
denly, for  Beatrice  looked  away,  and  her 
hands,  which  had  been  folded  together, 
clutched  each  other  nervously.  "  It  is 
always  flattering  for  a  gentleman  to  be 
the  object  of  a  lady's  notice,"  he  con- 
cluded, in  a  light  tone. 

Beatrice  smiled.  "  But  where,"  he 
continued,  "  could  you  have  gained  that 
power  of  divination  which  you  possess  ; 
you  who  have  always  lived  a  secluded 
life  in  so  remote  a  place  ?  " 

"  You  did  not  think  that  one  like  me 
could  come  out  of  Hong  Kong,  did  you  ?  " 
said  she  laughingly. 

"  Well,  I  have  seen  much  of  the  world  ; 
but  I  have  not  so  much  of  this  power  as 
you  have." 

"You  might  have  more  if — if" — she 
hesitated.  "  Well,"  she  continued,  "  they 
say,  you  know,  that  men  act  by  reason, 
women  by  intuition." 

"  Have  you  any  more  intuitions  }  " 
asked  Brandon  earnestly. 

"  Yes,"  said  she  mournfully. 

"Tell     e  some." 

"T  will  not  do  to  tell,"  said  Bea- 
trice, in  the  same  mournful  tone. 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  They  are  painful." 


"  Tell  them  at  any  rate." 

"No." 

"  Hint  at  them." 

Beatrice  looked  at  him  earnestly, 
Their  eyes  met.  In  hers  there  was  a 
glance  of  anxious  enquiry,  as  though  her 
soul  were  putting  forth  a  question  by  tliat 
look  which  was  stronger  thiMi  words,  in 
his  there  was  a  glance  of  anxious  expec- 
tancy, as  though  his  soul  were  spcakiiij^r 
into  hers,  saying:  "  TH.I  ail;  let  mc 
k\o\v  if  you  susp  ct  that  of  which  I  am 
afraid  to  think." 

"  We  have  met  with  ships  at  sea,"  siie 
.    urned,  in  low,  deliberate  tones. 

"  Its." 

"  Sometimes  we  have  caught  up  with 
them,  we  have  exchanged  signals ;  wt 
have  sailed  in  sight  of  one  another  for 
hours  or  for  days,  holding  intercours-j  all 
the  while.  At  last  a  new  morning  has 
come,  and  we  looked  out  over  the  sea,  and 
the  other  ship  has  gone  from  sight.  \Vc 
have  left  it  forever.  Perhaps  we  have 
drifted  away,  perhaps  a  storm  has  parted 
us,  the  end  is  the  same — separation  for 
evermore." 

She  spoke  nDurnfully,  looking  away, 
her  voice  insensibly  took  up  a  cadence, 
and  the  words  seemed  to  fall  of  themselves 
into  rhythmic  pauses. 

"  I  understand  you,"  said  Brandon, 
with  a  more  profound  mournfulness  in 
his  voice.  "  You  speak  like  a  Sibyl.  I 
pray  Heaven  that  your  words  may  not 
be  a  prophecy." 

Beatrice  still  looked  at  him,  and  in  her 
eyes  he  read  pity  beyond  words;  and 
sorrow  also  as  deep  as  that  pity. 

"  Do  you  read  my  thoughts  as  I  read 
yours  .^  "  asked  Brandon  abruptly. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  mournfully. 

He  turned  his  face  away. 

"Did  Langhetti  teach  you  this  alsu? " 
he  asked,  at  last. 


THE   STRUGGLE    FOR    LIFE 


71 


"He  taught  me  many  things,"  was  the 
.inswcr. 
Day  succeeded  to  (hiy,  and  week   to 


Storms  came — some  moderate,  some 
severe;  but  the  shij)  escaped  tliem  all  with 
no  casualties,  and  with  but  little  delay. 


1  * 

wcL'k.  ^till  the  ship  went  on  l.olding  i  At  last  tiicy  passed  the  equator,  and 
steadii  t  /  her  course nori.!  waul,. -uul  , very  seen  ed  to  have  entered  the  last  stage  of 
clay  flf      'Hg  nearer  and  n<  irer  her  goal.  1  their  journey. 


CHAPTER   XII 


THE  STRUGGLE   FOR   LIFE 


At  lenj,th  the  ship  came  within  the 
latitude  of  the  Guinea  coast. 

?'or  some  days  there  had  been  alter- 
nate winds  and  calms,  and  the  weather 
was  so  fitful  and  so  fickle  that  no  one 
could  tell  in  one  hour  what  would 
happen  in  the  next.  All  this  was  at  last 
teiiiiiiMited  by  a  dead,  dense,  oppressive 
calm  like  those  of  the  Indian  Jcean,  in 
which  exertion  was  almost  impossible 
and  breathing  difBcult.  The  sky,  how- 
ever, instead  of  being  clear  and  bright, 
as  in  former  calms,  was  now  overspread 
with  menacing  clouds ;  the  sea  looked 
black,  and  spread  out  before  them  on 
every  side  like  an  illimitable  surface  of 
polished  ebony.  There  was  something 
appalling  in  the  depth  and  intensity  of 
this  calm  with  such  accompaniments. 
All  felt  this  influence.  Although  there 
was  every  temptation  to  inaction  and 
sleep,  yet  no  one  yielded  to  it.  The 
men  looked  suspiciously  and  expectantly 
at  every  quarter  of  the  heavens.  The 
cajitain  said  nothing,  but  cautiously  had 
all  his  preparations  made  for  a  storm. 
Every  half  hour  he  anxiously  consulted 
the  barometer,  and  then  cast  uneasy 
glances  at  the  sea   and   sky. 

But  the  calm  that  had  set  in  at  mid- 


night, and  had  become  confir  id  f 
dawn,  extended  itself  through  M-.,;  1:-  . 
day.  The  ship  drifted  idly,  kecj  Hg  .  u 
course,  her  yards  creaking  1;  '  _,■  a  she 
slowly  rose  and  fell  at  the  movet  rit  of 
the  ocean  undulations.  IIou'  after  hour 
passed,  and  the  day  endec,  !  1  night 
came  once   more. 

The  captain  did  not  turn  in  that  night. 
In  anxious  expectation  he  waited  and 
watched  on  deck,  while  all  around  there 
was  the  very  blackness  of  darkness. 
Brandon  began  to  see  from  the  captain's 
manner  that  he  expected  something  far 
more  violent  than  anything  which  the 
ship  had  yet  encount  .red,  but,  thinking 
that  his  presence  wculd  be  of  no  conse- 
quence, he  retired  at  the  usual  hour. 

The  deep,  dense  calm  continued  until 
nearly  midnight.  The  watchers  on  deck 
still  waited  in  the  same  anxious  expecta- 
tion, thinking  that  the  night  would  bring 
on  the  change  which  they  expected. 

Almost  half  an  hour  before  midnight  a 
faint  light  was  seen  in  the  thick  mass  of 
clouds  overhead— it  was  not  lightning, 
but  a  whitish  streak,  as  though  p'  'uced 
by  some  movc.iicnt  in  the  cloucis.  All 
looked  up  in  mute  expectation. 

Suddenly  a  faint  puff  of  wind   came 


C3> 

Li,, 

CD 

If— ~.,». 
CO 
l  .U 


72 


CORD    AND   CUEESE 


from  the  west,  blowing  gently  for  a  few 
monnents,  then  stopping,  and  then  coining 
on  in  a  stronger  blast.  Afar  off.  at  what 
seemed  like  an  immeasurable  distance,  a 
low,  dull  roar  arose,  a  heavy  moaning 
sound,  like  the  menace  of  the  mighty  At- 
lantic, which  was  now  advancing  in  wrath 
upon  them. 

In  the  midst  of  this  the  whole  scene 
burst  forth  into  dazzling  light  at  the  flash 
of  a  vast  mass  of  lightning,  which  secmi-d 
to  blaze  from  every  part  of  the  heavens  on 
every  side  simultaneously.  It  threw  forth 
all  things— ship,  sea,  and  sky — into  the 
dazzled  eyes  of  the  watchers.  They  saw 
the  ebon  sky,  the  black  and  lustrous  sea, 
the  motionless  ship.  They  saw  also,  far 
off  to  the  west,  a  long  line  of  white  which 
appeared  to  extend  along  the  whole 
horizon. 

But  the  scene  darted  out  of  sight  in- 
stantly, and  instantly  there  fell  the  volley- 
ing discharge  of  a  tremendous  peal  of 
thunder,  at  whose  reverberations  the  air 
and   sea  and  ship  all  vibrated. 

Now  the  sky  lightened  again,  and  sud- 
denly, as  the  ship  lay  there,  a  vast  ball  of 
fire  issued  from  the  black  clouds  immedi- 
ately overhead,  descending  like  the  light- 
ning straight  downward,  till  all  at  once 
it  struck  the  main-truck.  With  a  roar 
louder  than  that  of  the  recent  thunder  it 
exploded  ;  vast  sheets  of  fire  flashed  out 
into  the  air,  and  a  stream  of  light  passed 
down  the  entire  mast,  shattering  it  as  a 
tree  is  shattered  when  the  lightning  strikes 
it.  The  whole  ship  was  shaken  to  its 
centre.  The  deck  all  around  the  n  ast 
was  shattered  to  splinters,  and  along  its 
extent  and  around  its  base  a  burst  of 
vivid  flame  started  into  light. 

Wild  confusion  followed.  At  once  all 
the  sailors  were  ordered  up,  and  began  to 
extinguish  the  fires,  and  to  cut  away  the 
shattered  mast.    The  blows  of  the  axes 


resounded  through  the  ship.  The  rigginjj 
was  severed  ;  the  mast,  already  shattered, 
needed  but  a  few  blows  to  loosen  its  last 
fibres. 

But  suddenly,  and  furiously,  and  irre- 
sistibly, it  seemed  as  though  the  whoi« 
tempest  which  they  had  so  long  expected 
was  at  last  let  loose  upon  them.  There 
was  a  low  moan,  and,  while  they  were 
yet  trying  to  get  rid  of  the  mast,  a 
tremendous  squall  struck  the  ship.  It 
yielded  and  turned  far  over  to  that  awful 
blow.  The  men  started  back  from  their 
work.  The  next  instant  a  flash  of  ligjii- 
ning  came,  and  toward  the  west,  close 
over  them,  rose  a  long  white  wall  of 
foam.  It  was  the  vanguard  of  the  sicini, 
seen  shortly  before  from  afar,  which  was 
now  upon  them,  ready  to  fall  on  their 
devoted  heads. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken.  No  order 
came  from  the  captain.  The  men  awaited 
some  word.  There  came  none.  Then 
the  waters,  which  thus  rose  up  like  a  heap 
before  them,  struck  the  ship  with  all  the 
accumulated  fury  of  that  resistless  onset, 
and  hurled  their  utmost  weight  upon  her 
as  she  lay  before  them. 

The  ship,  already  reeling  far  over  at 
the  stroke  of  the  storm,  now,  at  this  new 
onset,  yielded  utterly,  and  rolled  far  over 
on  her  beam-ends.  The  awful  billows 
dashed  over  and  over  her,  sweeping  her 
in  their  fury  from  end  to  end.  The  men 
clung  helplessly  to  whatever  rigging  lay 
nearest,  seeking  only  in  that  first  moment 
of  dread  to  prevent  themselves  from 
being  washed  away,  and  waiting  for  some 
order  from  the  captain,  and  wonilering 
while  they  waited. 

At  the  first  peal  of  thunder  Brandon 
had  started  up.  He  had  lain  down  in  Ins 
clothes,  in  order  to  be  prepared  for  any 
emergency.  He  called  Cato.  The  Hindu 
was  at  hand.    "  Cato,  keep  close  to  me 


THE   STRUGGLE    FOR    LIFE 


73 


whatever  happens,  for  you  will  be 
needed."  "Yes.  Sahib."  He  then 
iiuiried  to  Beatrice's  room  and  knocked. 
It  was  opened  at  once.  She  came  forth 
with  her  pale,  serene  face,  and  looked  at 

him. 

"  I  did  not  lie  down,"  said  she.  "  I 
knew  that  there  would  be  something 
frightful.  But  I  am  not  afraid.  At  any 
rate,"  she  added,  "  I  know  I  will  not  be 
deserted." 

iirandon  said  nothing,  but  held  out 
to  her  an  India-rubber  life-preserver, 
"What  is  this  for  ?"  "  For  you.  I  wish 
you  to  put  it  on.  It  may  not  be  needed, 
l)ut  it  is  best  to  have  it  on."  "  And  what 
will  you  do  ?  "  "  I — oh  !  I  can  swim,  you 
know.  But  you  don",  know  how  to  fasten 
it.  Will  you  allow  me  to  do  so  ?  "  She 
raised  her  arms.  He  passed  the  belt 
around  her  waist,  encircling  her  almost 
in  his  arms  while  doing  so,  and  his 
hand,  which  had  boldly  grasped  the  head 
of  the  "  dweller  in  the  wreck,"  now 
treml)Ied  as  he  fastened  the  belt  around 
that  delicate  and  slender  waist. 

But  scarcely  had  this  been  completed 
when  the  squall  struck  the  ship,  and  the 
waves  followed  till  the  vessel  was  thrown 
far  over  on  her  side ;  and  Brandon,  seiz- 
ing Beatrice  in  one  arm,  clung  with  the 
other  to  the  edge  of  the  skylight,  and 
thus  kept  himself  upright. 

He  rested  now  for  a  moment.  "  I 
must  go  on  deck,"  he  said.  "  I  do  not 
wish  you  lo  leave  me,"  was  her  answer. 
Nothing  more  was  said.  Brandon  at 
once  lifted  her  with  one  arm  as  though 
she  were  a  child  and  clambered  along, 
grasping  such  fixtures  as  afforded  any- 
thing to  which  he  could  cling  ;  and  thus, 
with  hands  and  feet,  groped  his  way  to 
the  door  of  the  cabin,  which  was  on  the 
windward  side.  There  were  two  doors, 
and  between  them  was  a  seat. 


"  This,"  said  he,  "  is  the  safest  place 
for  you.  Can  you  hold  on  for  a  short 
lime?  If  I  take  you  on  deck  you  will  be 
exposed  to  the  waves." 

"  I  will  do  whatever  you  say,"  she  re- 
plied ;  and  clinging  to  the  arm  of  the 
almost  perpendicular  seat,  she  was  able  to 
sustain  herself  there  amid  the  tossing 
and  swaying  of  the  ship, 

Brandon  then  clambered  out  on  deck. 
The  ship  lay  far  over.  The  waves  came 
leaping  upon  her  in  successive  surges. 
All  around  the  sea  was  glistening  with 
phosphorescent  lustre,  and  when  at  times 
the  lightning  flashed  forth  it  lighted  up 
the  scene,  and  showed  the  ocean  stirred 
up  to  fiercest  commotion.  It  seemed  as 
though  cataracts  of  water  were  rushing 
over  the  doomed  ship,  which  now  lay 
helpless,  and  at  the  mercy  of  the  billow*. 
The  force  of  the  wind  was  tremendous, 
exceeding  anything  that  Brandon  had 
ever  witnessed  before. 

What  most  surprised  him  now  was  the 
inaction  of  the  ship's  company.  Why 
was  not  something  being  done?  Where 
was  the  captain  ? 

He  called  out  his  name  ;  there  was  no 
response.  He  called  after  the  mate; 
there  was  no  answer.  Instantly  he  con- 
jectured that  in  the  first  fierce  onset  of 
the  storm  both  captain  and  mate  had 
been  swept  away.  How  many  more  of 
that  gallant  company  of  brave  fellows 
had  j^erished  he  knew  not.  The  hour 
was  a  perilous  and  a  critical  one.  He 
himself  determined  to  take  the  lead. 

Through  the  midst  of  the  storm,  with 
its  tumult  and  its  fury,  there  came  a 
voice  as  full  and  clear  as  a  trumpet-peal, 
which  roused  all  the  sailors,  and  inspired 
them  once  more  with  hope.  "  Cut  away 
the  masts  !  "  The  men  obeyed,  without 
caring  who  gave  the  order.  It  was  the 
command    which   each  man    had  been 


03 


CD 


74 


CORD    AND    CREESE 


cxpccliiig,  and  which  he  knew  was  the 
thing  that  sliould  be  done.  At  once  tiiey 
sprang  to  tlieir  work.  The  mainmast 
had  already  been  cut  loose.  Some  went 
to  the  foremast,  others  to  the  mizzen. 
The  vast  waves  rolled  on  ;  the  sailors 
guarded  as  best  they  could  against  the 
rush  of  each  wave,  and  then  sprang  in 
the  intervals  to  their  work.  It  was 
perilous  in  the  highest  degree,  but  each 
man  felt  that  his  own  life  and  the  lives 
of  all  the  others  depended  upon  the 
accomplishment  of  this  work,  and  this 
nerved  the  arm  of  each  to  the  task. 

At  last  it  was  done.  The  last  strand 
of  rigging  had  been  cut  away.  The 
ship,  disencumbered,  slowly  righted,  and 
at  last  rode  upright. 

But  her  situation  was  still  dangerous. 
She  lay  in  the  trough  of  the  sea,  and  the 
gigantic  waves,  as  they  rolled  up,  still 
beat  upon  her  with  all  their  concentrated 
energies.  Helpless,  and  now  altogether 
at  the  mercy  of  the  waves,  the  only  hope 
left  those  on  board  lay  in  the  strength  of 
the  ship  herself. 

None  of  the  officers  were  left.    As  the 
ship  righted  Brandon  thought  that  some 
of  them  might  make  their  appearance, 
but  none  came.    The  captain,  the  mate, 
and  the  second  mate,  all  had  gone.    Per- 
haps all  of  them,  as  they  stood  on  the 
quarter-deck,    had     been     swept     away 
simultaneously.    Nothing  could  now  be 
done  but  to  wait.     Morning  at  last  came 
to  the  anxious  watchers.     It  brought  no 
hope.     Far  and  wide  the  sea  raged  with 
all  its  waves.    The  wind  blew  with  un- 
diminished and  irresistible  violence.    The 
ship,  still  in  the  trough  of  the  sea,  heaved 
and  plunged  in  the  overwhelming  waves, 
which  howled  madly  around  and  leaped 
over  her  like  wolves  eager  for  their  prey. 
The  wind  was  too  fierce  to  permit  even 
an  attempt  to  rig  a  jurymast. 


The  ship  was  also  deeply  laden,  uul 
this  contributed  to  her  peril.  Had  lui 
cargo  been  smaller  she  would  have  htea 
more  buoyant ;  but  her  full  cargo,  aildid 
to  her  dangerous  position  as  she  lay  at 
the  mercy  of  the  waves,  made  all  hope  of 
escape  dark  indeed. 

Another  night  succeeded.  It  was  a 
night  of  equal  horror.  The  men  stood 
watching  anxiously  for  some  sign  of 
abatement  in  the  storm,  but  none  came. 
Sea  and  sky  frowned  over  them  darkly, 
and  all  the  powers  which  they  contruiled 
were  let  loose  unrestrained. 

Another  day  and  night  came  and  went, 
Had  not  the  Falcon  been  a  ship  of  un- 
usual strength  she  would  have  yielded 
before  this  to  the  storm.  As  it  was,  siie 
began  to  show  signs  of  giving  way  to  the 
tremendous  hammering  to  which  she  had 
been  exposed,  and  her  heavy  Australian 
cargo  bore  her  down.  On  the  morning  of 
the  third  day  Brandon  Law  that  she  was 
deeper  in  the  water,  and  suspected  a  leak. 
He  ordered  the  pumps  to  be  sounded. 
It  was  as  he  feared.  There  were  four 
feet  of  water  in  the  hold. 

The  men  went  to  work  at  the  pumps 
and  worked  by  relays.  Amid  the  rush 
of  the  waves  over  the  ship  it  was  difficuh 
to  work  advantageously,  but  they  toiltJ 
or..  Still,  in  spite  of  their  efforts,  the 
leak  seemed  xo  have  increased,  for  the 
water  did  not  lessen.  With  their  utmost 
exertion  they  could  do  little  more  than 
hold  their  own. 

It  was  plain  that  this  sort  of  thing  could 
not  last.  Already  three  nights  and  tliree 
days  of  incessant  toil  and  anxiety,  in 
which  no  one  had  slept,  had  produced 
their  natural  effects.  The  men  had  be- 
come faint  and  weary.  But  the  brave 
fellows  never  murmured  ;  they  did  every- 
thing which  Brandon  ordered,  and  worked 
uncomplainingly. 


THE   STRUOGLl.    FOR    LIFE 


75 


TIuis,  through  the  third  clay,  they 
labored  on,  and  into  the  fourth  ni>;ht. 
That  night  the  storm  secujed  to  have 
readied  its  climax,  if,  indeed,  any  climax 
could  be  found  to  a  storm  which  at  the 
very  outset  hid  burst  upon  them  with 
such  appalling  suddenness  and  fury,  and 
had  sustained  itself  all  along  with  such 
unremitting  energy.  But  on  that  night 
it  was  worse  for  those  on  board,  since  the 
ship  which  had  resisted  so  long  began  to 
exhil)it  signs  of  yielding ;  her  planks  and 
timbers  so  severely  assailed  began  to  give 
way,  and  through  the  gaping  seams  the 
ocean  waters  permeated,  till  the  ocean, 
like  some  beleaguering  army,  failing  in 
direct  assault,  began  to  succeed  by  open- 
ing secret  mines  to  the  very  heart  of  the 
besieged  ship. 

On  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day  all 
hands  were  exhausted  from  night-long 
work,  and  there  were  ten  feet  of  water  in 
the  hold. 

It  now  became  evident  that  the  ship 
was  doomed.  Brandon  at  once  began 
to  take  measures  for  the  safety  of  the 
men. 

On  the  memorable  day  of  the  calm 
previous  to  the  outbreak  of  the  storm,  the 
captain  had  told  Brandon  that  they  were 
about  five  hundred  miles  to  the  westward 
of  the  coast  of  Senegambia.  He  could 
not  form  any  idea  of  the  distance  which 
the  ship  had  drifted  during  the  progress 
of  the  storm,  but  justly  considered  that 
whatever  progress  she  had  made  had 
been  toward  the  land.  1  eir  prospects 
in  that  direction,  if  th'^y  cou.l  only  reach 
it,  were  not  hopeless.  Sierra  Leone  and 
Liberia  were  there ;  and  if  they  struck 
the  coast  anywhere  about  they  might 
make  their  way  to  either  of  those  places. 

lUit  the  question  was  how  to  get  there. 
There  was  only  one  way,  and  that  was  by 
taking  to  the  boats.    This  was  a  desper- 


ate undertaking,  but  it  was  the  only  way 
of  escape  now  left. 

There  were  three  boats  on  board— viz., 
the  long-boat,  the  cutter,  and  the  gi;^. 
These  were  the  only  hope  now  left  them. 
By  venturing  in  these  there  would  be  a 
chance  of  escape. 

On  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day,  when 
it  was  found  that  the  water  was  increas- 
ing, Brandon  called  the  men  together  and 
stated  this  to  them.  He  then  told  them 
that  it  would  be  necessary  to  divide 
themselves  so  that  a  sufficient  number 
should  go  in  each  boat.  He  offered  to 
give  up  to  them  the  two  larger  boats,  and 
take  the  gig  for  himself,  his  servant,  and 
the  young  lady. 

To  this  the  men  assented  with  great 
readiness.  Some  of  them  urged  him  to 
go  into  the  larger  boat,  and  even  offered 
to  exchange  with  him  ;  but  Brandon  de- 
clined. 

They  then  prepared  for  their  desperate 
venture.  All  the  provisions  and  water 
that  could  be  needed  were  put  on  board 
of  each  boat.  Fire-arms  were  not  for- 
gotten. Arrangements  were  made  for 
a  long  and  arduous  voyage.  The  men 
still  worked  at  the  pumps;  and  though 
the  water  gained  on  them,  yet  time  was 
gained  for  completing  these  important 
preparations. 

About  midday  all  was  ready.  Fifteen 
feet  of  water  were  in  the  hold.  The  ship 
could  not  last  much  longer.  There  was 
no  time  to  lose. 

But  how  could  the  boats  be  put  out  ? 
How  could  they  live  in  such  a  sea? 
This  was  the  question   to  be  decided. 

The  ship  lay  as  before  in  the  trough 
of  the  sea.  On  the  windward  side  the 
waves  came  rushing  up,  beating  upun 
and  sweeping  over  her.  On  the  leew.-u(! 
the  water  was  calmer,  but  the  waves 
tossed  and  raged  angrily  even  theje. 


76 


CORD    AND    CREESE 


Only  twenty  were  left  out  of  the  ship's 
company.  7  lie  rest  were  all  missing. 
Of  these,  fourteen  were  to  go  in  the  long- 
boat, v.i«\  six  in  the  cutter.  Brandon, 
Beatrice,  and    Cato  were  to  take    the 

gig- 
The  sailors  put  the  gig  out  first.     The 

light    boat    floated     buoyantly    on    the 

waters.     Cato  leaped  into  her,  and  she 

was  fastened  by  a  long  line  to  the  ship. 

The  nimble  Hindu,  trained  for  a  lifetime 

to  encounter    the  giant  surges  of    the 

Malabar  coast,  managed   the  little  boat 

w'th  marvellous  dexterity — avoiding  the 

sv  ^ep  of  the  waves  which  dashed  around 

and  keeping  sufficiently  under  the  lee  to 

escape  the  rougher  waves,  yet  not  so 

much  so  as  to  be  hurled  against  the 

vessel. 

Then  the  sailors  put  out  the  long-boat. 
This  was  a  difficult  undertaking,  but  it 
was  successfully  accomplished,  and  the 
men  were  all  on  board  at  last.  Instantly 
they  prepared  to  row  away. 

At  that  moment  a  wilder  wave  came 
pouring  over  the  ship.  It  was  as  though 
the  ocean,  enraged  at  the  escape  of  these 
men,  had  made  a  final  effort  to  grasp  its 
prey.  Before  the  boat  with  its  living 
freight  had  got  rid  of  the  vessel,  the 
sweep  of  this  gigantic  wave,  which  had 
passed  completely  over  the  ship,  struck 
it  where  it  lay.  Brandon  turned  away 
his  eyes  involuntarily. 

There  was  a  wild  shriek — the  next 
moment  the  black  outline  of  the  long- 
boat, bottom  upward,  was  seen  amid 
the  foaming  billows. 

The  men  who  waited  to  launch  the 
cutter  were  at  first  paralyzed  by  this 
tragedy,  but  there  was  no  time  to  lose. 
Derth  threatened  them  behind  as  well  as 
before  ;  behind,  death  was  certain  ;  be- 
fore, there  was  still  a  chance.  They 
launched  the  cutter  in  desperation.    The 


six  men  succeeded  in  getting  into  her, 
and  in  rowing  out  at  some  distance.  As 
wave  after  wave  rose  and  fell  she  dis- 
appeared from  view,  and  then  reappeared, 
till  at  last  Brandon  thought  that  she  at 
least  was  safe. 

Then  he  raised  his  hand  and  made  a 
peculiar  signal  to  Cato. 

The  Hindo  understood  it.  Brandon 
had  given  him  his  directions  l)efore. 
Now  was  the  time.  The  roll  of  the 
waves  coming  up  was  for  the  present 
less  dangerous. 

Beatrice,  who  during  the  whole  storm 
had  been  calm,  and  had  quietly  done 
v.hatever  Brandon  told  her,  was  now 
waiting  at  the  cabin  door  in  obedience  to 
his  directions. 

As  soon  as  Brandon  had  made  the 
signal  he  hurried  to  the  cabin  door  and 
assisted  Beatrice  to  the  quarter-deck. 
Cato  rowed  his  boat  close  up  to  the  ship, 
and  was  waiting  for  a  chance  to  cone 
within  reach.  The  waves  were  still  more 
moderate.  It  was  the  opportunity  for 
which  Cato  had  been  watching  so  long. 
He  held  his  oars  poised,  and,  as  a  sudden 
swell  of  a  wave  rose  near  the  ship,  he 
forced  his  boat  so  that  i*.  came  close  be- 
side it,  rising  high  on  the  crest  of  t!ie 
swell. 

As  the  wave  rose  Brandon  also  had 
watched  his  opportunity  as  well  as  the 
action  of  Cato.  It  was  the  moment  too 
for  which  he  had  been  watching.  In  an 
instant,  and  without  a  word,  he  caught 
Beatrice  in  his  arms,  raised  her  high  in 
the  air,  poised  himself  for  a  moment  on 
edge  of  the  quarter-deck,  and  sprang  for- 
ward into  the  boat.  His  foot  rested 
firmly  on  the  seat  w^  /e  it  struck.  He 
set  Beatrice  down,  .ind  with  a  knife 
severed  the  line  which  connected  the 
boat  with  the  ship. 

Then,  seizing  an  oar,  he  began  to  row 


THE   STRUGGLE    FOR   LIFE 


77 


with  all  his  strength.  Cato  had  the  bow 
oar.  The  next  wave  came,  and  it,>  sweep, 
communicating  itself  to  the  water,  rolled 
on,  dashing  against  the  ship  and  moving 
under  it,  rising  up  high,  lifting  the  boat 
with  it,  and  bearing  it  along.  But  the 
boat  was  now  under  command,  and  the 
two  rowers  held  it  so  that  while  it  was 
able  to  avoid  the  dash  of  the  water,  it 
jould  yet  gain  from  it  all  the  momentum 
that  could  be  given. 

Brandon  handled  the  oar  with  a  dex- 
terity equal  to  that  of  the  Hindu,  and 
under  such  management,  which  was  at 
once  strong  and  skilful,  the  boat  skimmed 
lightly  over  the  crests  of  the  rolling 
waves,  and  passed  out  into  the  sea  be- 
yond. There  the  great  surges  came 
sweeping  on,  rising  high  beyond  the  boat, 
each  wave  seeming  about  to  crush  the 
little  bark  in  its  resistless  grasp,  but  not- 
withstanding the  threat  the  boat  seemed 
always  able  by  some  good  luck  to  avoid 
the  impending  danger,  for  as  each  wave 
came  forward  the  boat  would  rise  up  till 
it  was  on  a  level  with  the  crest,  and  the 
flood  of  waters  would  sweep  on  under- 
neath, bearing  it  onward. 

After  nearly  half  an  hour's  anxious  and 
careful  rowing  Brandon  looked  all  about 
to  find  the  cutter.  It  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen.  Again  and  again  he  looked  for  it, 
seeking  in  all  directions.  But  he  dis- 
covered no  sign  of  it  on  the  raging  waters, 
-'.nd  at  last  he  could  no  longer  doubt 
that  the  cutter  also,  like  the  long-boat, 
had  perished  in  the  sea. 

All  day  long  they  rowed  before  the 
wind  and  wave — not  strongly,  but  lightly, 
so  as  to  husband  their  strength.  Night 
came,  when  Brandon  and  Cato  took  turns 
at  the  oars— not  overexerting  themselves, 
at  seelving  chiefly  to  keep  the  boat's 
nead  in  a  pre,  ^'*  direction,  and  to  evade 
ihe  rush  of  the  waves.     This  last  was 


their  constant  danger,  and  it  required  the 
utmost  skill  and  the  most  incessant 
watchfulness  to  do  so. 

All  this  time  Beatrice  sat  in  the  stern, 
with  a  heavy  oilcloth  coat  around  her, 
which  Brandon  directed  her  to  put  on, 
saying  nothing,  but  seeing  everything 
with  her  watchful,  vigilant  eyes. 

"  Are  you  afraid  ?  "  said  Brandon  once, 
just  after  they  had  evaded  an  enormous 
wave. 

"  No ! "  was  the  reply,  in  a  calm,  sweet 
voice  ;  "  1  trust  in  you." 

"  I  hope  your  trust  may  not  be  in  vain," 
replied  Brandon. 

"  You  have  saved  my  life  so  often," 
said  Beatrice,  "  that  my  trust  in  you  has 
now  become  a  habit." 

She  smiled  faintly  as  she  spoki ,  There 
was  something  in  her  tone  which  sank 
deep  into  his  soul. 

The  night  passed  and  morning  came. 

For  the  last  half  of  the  night  the  wind 
had  been  much  less  boisterous,  and 
toward  morning  the  gale  had  very  greatly 
subsided.  Brandon's  foresight  had  se- 
cured a  mast  and  sail  on  board  the  gig, 
and  now,  as  soon  as  it  could  be  erected 
with  safety,  he  put  it  up,  and  the  little 
boat  dashed  bravely  over  the  waters. 
The  waves  liad  lessened  greatly  as  the 
day  wore  on  ;  they  no  longer  ro^e  in  such 
giant  masses,  but  showed  merely  the 
more  common  proportions.  Brandon 
and  Cato  now  had  an  opportunity  to  get 
some  rest  from  their  exhausting  labors. 
Beatrice  at  iust  yielded  to  Brandon's 
earnest  request,  and,  finding  that  the 
immediate  peril  had  passed,  and  that  his 
toil  for  the  present  was  over,  she  obtained 
some  sleep  and  rest  for  herself. 

For  all  that  day,  and  all  that  night, 
and  all  the  next  day,  the  little  boat  sped 
over  the  waters,  heading  due  east,  so  as 
to  reach  land  wherever  they  might  find 


f" 


ill"" 
CO 

€.£: 

t.u 
""-  »,^ 


78 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


1 

i 


it,  in  the  hope  that  the  land  might  not  be 
very  far  away  from  the  civiHzed  settle- 
ments of  the  coast.  The  provisions  and 
water  which  had  been  put  in  the  boat 
formed  an  ample  supply,  which  would 
last  for  a  long  time.  Brandon  shared 
with  Cato  in  the  management  of  the 
boat,  not  allowing  his  man  to  have  more 
of  the  labor  than  himself. 

During  these  days  Brandon  and 
Beatrice  were  of  course  thrown  into  a 
closer  intimacy.  At  such  a  time  the 
nature  of  man  or  woman  becomes  most 
apparent,  and  here  Beatrice  showed  a 
noble  calm  and  a  simple  trust  which  to 
Brandon  was  most  touching.  He  knew 
that  she  must  feel  most  keenly  the 
fatigue  and  the  privations  of  such  a  life ; 
but  her  unvarying  cheerfulness  was  the 
same  as  it  had  been  on  shipboard.  He, 
too,  exhibited  that  same  constancy  and 
resolution  which  he  had  always  evinced, 
and  by  his  consideration  for  Cato  showed 
his  natural  kindness  of  heart. 

"  How  sorry  I  am  that  I  can  do  noth- 
ing ! "  Beatrice  would  say.  "  You  are 
killing  yourself,  and  I  have  to  sit  idle  and 
gain  my  safety  at  your  expense." 

"  The  fact  that  you  are  yet  safe," 
Brandon  would  reply,  "  is  enough  for  nie. 
As  long  as  I  see  you  sitting  there  I  can 
work." 

"  But  can  I  do  nothing  ?  It  is  hard  for 
me  to  sit  idle  while  you  wear  out  your 
life." 

"  You  can  sing,"  said  Brandon. 

"  What  ?  " 

"  Langhetti's  song,"  he  said,  and 
turned  his  face  away. 

She  sang  at  once.  Her  tones  rose  in 
marvellous  modulations  ;  the  words  were 
not  much,  but  the  music  with  which  she 
clothed  them  seemed  again  to  utter  forth 
that  longin<j  which  Brandon  had  heard 
before. 


Now,  as  they  passed  over  the  seas, 
Beatrice  sang,  and  Brandon  did  not  wish 
that  this  life  should  end.  Through  the 
days,  as  they  sailed  on,  her  voice  arose 
expressive  of  every  changeful  feeling,  now 
speaking  of  grief,  now  swelling  in  sweet 
strains  of  hope. 

Day  thus  succeeded  to  day  until  the 
fourth  night  came,  when  the  wind  died 
out  and  a  calm  spread  over  the  waters. 

Brandon,  who  waked  at  about  two  in 
the  morning  so  as  to  let  Cato  sleep,  saw 
that  the  wind  had  ceased,  and  that 
another  one  of  those  treacherous  calms 
had  come.  He  at  once  put  out  the  oars, 
and,  directing  Cato  to  sleep  till  he  waked 
him,  began  to  pull, 

Beatrice  remonstrated,  "  Do  not," 
said  she,  in  an  imploring  tone.  "  You 
have  already  done  too  much.  Wliy 
should  you  kill  yourself.'" 

"  The  wind  has  stopped,"  answered 
Brandon.  "  The  calm  is  treacherous,  and 
no  time  ought  to  be  lost." 

"  iJut  wait  till  you  have  rested." 

"  I  have  been  resting  for  days," 

"  Why  do  you  not  rest  during  the 
night  and  work  in  the  daytime  ?  " 

"  Because  the  daytime  is  so  frightfully 
hot  that  work  will  be  diflicult.  Night  is 
the  time  to  work  now." 

Brandon  kept  at  his  oars,  and  Beatrice 
saw  that  remonstrances  were  useless. 
He  rowed  steadily  until  the  break  of  day ; 
then,  as  day  was  dawning,  he  rested  for  a 
while,  and  looked  earnestly  toward  the 
east. 

A  low,  dark  cloud  lay  along  the  eastern 
horizon,  well-defined  against  the  sky, 
which  now  was  growing  brighter  and 
brighter  every  hour.  Was  it  cloud,  or 
was  it  something  else  ?  This  was  the 
question  that  rose  in  Brandon's  mind. 

The  sky  grew  brighter,  the  scene  far 
and  wide  opened  up  before  the  gathering 


THE    STRUGGLE    FOR    LIFE 


79 


light  until  at  last  the  sun  began  to  appear. 
Then  there  was  no  longer  any  doubt. 
It  was  Land. 

This  he  told  to  Beatrice ;  and  the 
Hindu,  waking  at  the  same  time,  looked 
earnestly  toward  that  shore  which  they 
had  been  striving  so  long  and  so  ear- 
nestly to  reach.  It  was  land,  but  what 
land  ?  No  doubt  it  was  some  part  of  the 
coast  of  Senegambia,  but  what  one } 
Along  that  extensive  coast  there  were 
many  places  where  landing  might  be 
certain  death,  or  something  worse  than 
death.  Savage  tribes  mipht  dwell  there 
—either  those  which  were  demoralized 
by  dealings  with  slave-traders,  or  those 
which  were  flourishing  in  native  barbar- 
ism. Yet  only  one  course  was  now  ad- 
visable ;  namely,  to  go  on  till  they 
reached  the  shore. 

It  appeared  to  be  about  fifty  miles 
away.  So  Brandon  judged,  and  so  it 
proved.  The  land  which  they  had  seen 
was  the  summit  of  lofty  hills  which  were 
visible  from  a  great  distance.  They 
rowed  on  all  that  day.  The  water  was 
calm  and  glassy.  The  sun  poured  down 
its  most  fervid  beams,  the  air  was  sultry 
and  oppressive.  Beatrice  entreated  Bran- 
don now  to  desist  from  rowing  and  wait 
till  the  cool  of  the  night,  but  he  was 
afraid  that  a  storm  might  come  up  sud- 
denly. "  No,"  he  said,  "  our  only  hope 
now  is  to  get  near  the  land,  so  that  if  a 
storm  does  come  up  we  may  have  some 
place  of  shelter  within  reach." 

After  a  day  of  exhaustive  labor  the 
land  was  at  last  reached. 

High  hills,  covered  with  palm-trees,  rose 
before  them.  There  was  no  harbor 
■villiiii  sight,  no  river  outlet,  but  a  long, 
uninterrupted  extent  of  high,  wooded 
shores.  Here  in  the  evening  they  rested 
on  their  oars,  and  looked  earnestly  at  the 
shore. 


Brandon  conjectured  that  they  were 
somewhat  to  the  north  of  Sierra  Leone; 
and  did  not  think  that  they  could  be  to 
the  south.  At  any  rate,  a  southeasterly 
course  was  the  surest  one  for  them,  for 
they  would  reach  either  Sierra  Leone  or 
Liberia.  The  distance  which  they  might 
have  to  go  was,  however,  totally  uncertain 
to  him. 

So  they  turned  the  boat's  head  south- 
east, and  moved  in  a  line  parallel  with 
the  general  line  of  the  shore.  That  shore 
varied  in  its  features  as  they  passed 
along ;  sometimes  depressed  into  low, 
wide  savannas ;  at  others,  rising  into  a 
rolling  country,  with  hills  of  moderate 
height,  behind  which  appeared  the 
summits  of  lofty  mountains,  empurpled 
by  distance. 

It  was  evening  when  they  first  saw  the 
land,  and  then  they  went  on  without 
pausing.  It  was  arranged  that  they 
should  row  alternately,  as  moderately  as 
possible,  so  as  to  husband  their  strength. 
Cato  rowed  for  the  first  part  of  that  night, 
then  Brandon  rowed  till  morning.  On  the 
following  day  Cato  took  the  oars  again. 

It  was  now  just  a  week  since  the  wreck, 
and  for  the  last  two  days  there  had  not 
been  a  breath  of  wind  in  the  air;  nor  the 
faintest  ripple  on  that  burning  water. 
To  use  even  the  slightest  exertion  in  such 
torrid  heat  was  almost  impossible.  Even 
to  sit  still  under  that  blighting  sun,  with 
the  reflected  glare  from  the  dead,  dark 
sea  around,  was  painful. 

Beatrice  redoubled  her  entreaties  to 
Brandon  that  he  should  rest.  She 
wished  to  have  her  mantle  spread  over 
their  heads  as  a  kind  of  canopy,  or  fix  the 
sail  in  some  way  and  float  idly  through 
the  hottest  part  of  the  day.  But  Bran- 
don insisted  that  he  felt  no  evil  effects  as 
yet ;  and  promised,  when  he  did  feel  such, 
to  do  as  she  said. 


1 

p 

CD 


So 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


At  last  they  discovered  that  their  water 
was  almost  out,  and  it  was  necessary  to 
get  a  fresh  supply.  It  was  the  afternoon 
of  the  seventh  day.  Brandon  had  been 
rowing  ever  since  midday.  Beatrice  had 
wound  her  mantle  about  his  head  in  the 
style  of  an  Eastern  turban,  so  as  to  pro- 
tect him  from  the  sun's  rays.  Looking 
out  for  some  place  along  the  shore  where 
they  might  obtain  water,  they  saw  an 
opening  in  the  line  of  coast  where  two 
hills  arose  to  a  height  of  several  hundred 
feet.    Toward  this  Brandon  rowed. 

Stimulated  by  the  prospect  of  setting 
foot  on  shore  Brandon  rowed  somewhat 
more  vigorously  than  usual ;  and  in 
about  an  hour  the  boat  entered  a  beauti- 
ful little  cove  shut  in  between  two  hills, 
which  formed  the  outlet  of  a  river.  Far 
up  its  winding  course  could  be  traced  by 
the  trees  along  its  borders.  The  hills 
rose  on  each  side  with  a  steep  slope,  and 
were  covered  with  palms.    The  front  of 


the  harbor  v  as  shut  in  from  the  sea  by 
a  beautiful  little  wooded  island.  H-re 
Brandon  rowed  the  boat  into  this  cove : 
and  its  prow  grated  against  the  pebbles 
of  the  beach. 

Beatrice  had  uttered  many  exclama- 
tions  of  delight  at  the  beauty  of  this 
scene.  At  length,  surprised  at  Bran- 
don's silence,  she  cried  : 

"Why  do  you  not  say  sometiiing? 
Surely  this  is  a  Paradise  after  the 
sea ! " 

She  looked  up  with  an  enthusiastic 
smile. 

He  had  risen  to  his  feet.  A  strange, 
vacant  expression  was  in  his  eyes.  He 
made  a  step  forward  as  if  to  land.  His 
unsteady  foot  trembled.  He  reeled,  and 
stretched  out  his  arms  like  someone 
groping  in   the  dark. 

Beatrice  shrieked  and  sprang  forwaid, 
Too  late  :  for  the  next  moment  he  fell 
headlong  into  the  water. 


CHAPTER  Xni 


THE   BADINAGE  OF  OLD   FRIENDS 


The  town  of  Holby  is  on  the  co'.st  of 
Pembroke.  It  has  a  small  harbor,  with  a 
lighthouse,  and  the  town  itself  contains 
a  few  thousand  people,  most  of  them 
belonging  to  the  poorer  class.  The  chief 
house  in  the  town  stands  on  a  rising 
ground  a  little  outside,  looking  toward 
the  water.  Its  size  and  situation  render 
it  the  ;i!Ost  conspicuous  object  in  the 
neigiibo'i"  ad 

This  hou  ;'-om  'w  appearance,  must 
have  be?n  huur  more  than  a  century 
befc  'v   iuion,ft«.!    a)   an   (Ad   fnn.ily 

which  i'"i'  '.ecornc  extintf,  and  nowv  was 


j  occupied  by  a  new  owner,  who  had  given 
^  it  another  name.     This  new  owner  was 
I  William   Thornton,  Esq.,  solicitor,  who 
I  had  an  oflice  in  Holby,  and  who,  though 
very  wealthy,  still  attended  to  his  busi- 
ness with  undiminished  application.    The 
house  had  been  originally  p'jrchased  by 
the  father  of  the  present  occupant,  Henry 
Thornton,  a  well-known  lawyer  in  these 
parts,  who  had  settled  here  orij^.iially  a 
poor  young  man,  but  had  finally  grown 
gray  aiul  rich  in  his  adopted  home.    He 
i  had    boiiglit    the    pl.)ce     when    it    was 
I  exposed   for  sale,  with  the  intention  o( 


THE    BADINAGE    OV    OLD    FRIENDS 


8l 


founding  a  new  seat  for  his  own  family, 
and  iiad  given  it  the  name  of  Tliornlon 
Grange. 

Generations  of  care  and  tasteful  cul- 
ture had  made  Thornton  Grange  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  places  in  the  county. 
All  around  were  wide  parks  dotted  witli 
ponds  and  clumps  of  trees.  An  avenue 
of  elms  led  up  to  the  door,  A  well-kept 
lawn  was  in  front  and  behind  was  an 
extensive  grove.  Everything  spoke  of 
wealth  and  elegance. 

On  an  afternoon  in  February  a  gentle- 
man in  clerical  dress  walked  up  the 
avenue,  rang  at  tb.e  door,  and  entering 
he  gave  his  name  to  the  servants  as  the 
Rev.  Courtenay  Despard.  He  was  the 
new  rector  of  Holby,  and  had  only  been 
there  one  week. 

He  entered  the  drawing  room,  sat 
down  upon  one  of  the  many  lounging 
chairs  with  which  it  was  tilled,  and  waited. 
He  dill  not  h.ave  to  wait  long.  A  rapid 
step  was  soon  heard  descending  the 
slairs,  and  in  a  few  minutes  a  lady 
entered.  She  came  in  with  a  bright 
smile  of  welcome  on  her  face,  and 
greeted  him  with    much  warmth. 

Mrs.  Thornton  was  very  striking  in  her 
appearance.  A  clear  olive  c()m|)lexion 
and  large  dark  hazel  eyes  marked 
Southern  blood.  Her  hair  was  black, 
wavy,  and  exceedingly  luxuiiaiit.  Her 
mouth  was  small,  her  iiands  and  fret  deli- 
cately shaped,  and  her  figure  slender  and 
elegant.  Her  whole  air  had  tli.it  indflin- 
ahle  grace  which  is  the  sign  of  high-breed- 
ing ;  to  this  there  was  added  excee'ling 
loveliness, with  great  animation  of  face  and 
elegance  of  maimer.  She  was  a  perfect 
lady,  yet  not  of  the  English  stam|) ;  for  her 
looks  and  manner  had  not  that  cold  and 
phlegmatic  air  which  England  fosters. 
She  looked  rather  lik';  some  Italian  beauty 
—like  those  which  enchant  us  as  they 


smile  from  the  walls  of  the  picture  gal- 
leries of  Italy. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  liave  come  !  "  said 
she.  "  It  is  so  stupid  here,  and  I  expected 
you  an  hour  ago," 

"  Oh,  if  I  h;id  only  known  that  !"  said 
Despard.  "  For,  do  you  know,  I  have 
been  dying  of  ennui." 

"  I  hope  that  I  may  be  the  means  of 
dispelling  it." 

"  As  sureiy  so  as  the  sun  disperses  the 
clouds." 

"  You  are  never  at  a  loss  for  a  com- 
plijuent." 

"  Never  when  I  am  witli  yju." 

These  few  words  were  spoken  with  a 
smile  by  each,  and  a  slightly  melodi.imatic 
gesture,  as  though  each  was  conscious 
of  a  little  extra\agaiice. 

"  You  nuist  be  glad  to  get  to  your 
Ad  home,"  she  resumed.  "  \'c)U  lived 
1  V  re  fifteen,  ro,  sixteen  years,  you 
know." 

"  I'jglileen." 

"  So  it  was.  I  was  sixteen  when  you 
left." 

"Never  to  see  )'ju  again  till  I  came 
back,"  said  Despard,  witii  some  luouru- 
fulness,  looking  at  the  lli  Ji'. 

■'  And  since  then  all  has  ch.angi'il." 

"But  I  ha\c  not,"  rejoined  Desi  ril,  in 
the  same  tone. 

Mrs.  Thornton  said  nothiii  tor  a 
moment. 

"  By  the  way,  I've  been  read:!!  such  a 
nice  book."  she  lesumed.  "  1  as  just 
come  out,  antl  is  m  iking  n  nsatioii. 
It  would  suit  you,  1  know." 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

She  rose  and  lifted  a  biuk  Mom  the 
table,  which  she  handed  t'  im.  He 
took  it,  and  read  the  title  on:    loud. 

"  '  Christian's  Cross."  ' 

A  str.mge  expression  passed  over  his 
face.     He    looked   at    her,   ho'dmg    the 


82 


COKl)    AM)    CKKKSK 


book  out  at  aiii)  s-lcn;^th  with  feigned 
coiistcniatioii. 

"  And  do  you  have  tlic  heart  to  recom- 
mend tills  1joo1<  to  me,  Mrs.  'Hiornlon?  " 

•'  Why  not?" 

"  Wliy,  it's  relii;ious.  Rehgioiis  |joul<s 
are  my  terror.  I  low  coulii  I  possibly 
open  a  book  like  tliis  .''  " 

She  laugtied. 

"  Vou  are  mistaken,"  she  said.  "  It  is 
an  ordinary  novel,  and  for  the  .sake  of 
your  peace  of  mind  I  assure  you  that 
there  is  not  a  particle  of  religion  in  it. 
But  why  should  you  look  with  such  re- 
pugnance upon  it  ?  The  expression  of 
your  face  is  simply  hoiror." 

"  Pietistic  books  h;ne  beeii  the  bane  of 
my  life.  The  emotional,  the  rha])sotlical, 
the  meditati\e  style  of  book,  in  which  one 
garrulously  addresses  one's  soul  fiom  be- 
ginning to  end,  is  siiiii)Iy  torture  to  me, 
You  see  religion  is  a  different  thing. 
The  rhapsody  may  do  fur  the  Tabernacli- 
people,  but  ihouglitful  men  and  women 
need  something  ditTerent." 

•'  I  am  so  tlelightetl  to  Ihmt  sucli  senti- 
ments from  a  cleigyman  I  They  entin  Iv 
accord  with  my  own.  .Still  1  must  uwn 
that  your  horrur  struck  me  ,is  n(_)\el,  tu 
say  the  least  of  it." 

"  Would  y(ju  like  me  to  try  tw  prosely- 
tize you .'  " 

"  You  may  tiy  if  you  wish.  1  am  ()[)en 
to  conviction;  but  the  Ciiurch  of  all  the 
ages,  the  Apostolic,  the  Catiiolic.  h.is  ;i 
strong   hold  on   me." 

"You  need  not  fear  tli;it  I  will  e\er 
try  to  loostai  it.  I  only  wiili  lii.it  I  ni.'u- 
see  your  face  in  Trmity  Cl.ui'cli  everv 
Sunday," 

"  That  happiness  shall  l)e  yours," 
answered     Mis.     ThornioM.     "   \s    tlnre 


"  If  that  is  tiie  case  it  will  be  a  \)hc.(t 
of  worship  to  me." 

He  smiled  away  the  extravagance  of 
this  last  remaik,  and  she  only  sliuij|< 
her  head. 

"That  is  a  compliment,  but  ii  is 
awfully   profane." 

"  Not  profanity  ;  say  rather  justifMhlc 
idolatry." 

"  Really,  I  feel  overcome ;  1  do  not 
know  what  to  say.  At.  any  rate,  I  liiipc 
you  will  like  the  book  ;  I  know  you  aIH 
t'md   it   pleasant." 

"  Anything  that  comes  from  you  enuld 
not  be  otherwise,"  said  Despard.  'At 
the  same  tiitie  it  is  not  my  habit  to  [■  -j 
novels   sijigly." 

"Singlv  !  Whv,  how  else  can  one  n  '! 
them  }  " 

"  1  always  le.id  sevend  at  a  tinu'." 

.Mrs.  Tlujrnton  laughed  at  the  w'  ;  ■ 
sical  ide.a. 

"  N'ou  see,"  said  Desp.'ird,  "one  m  :  • 
ki'e[)  up   with   the   hleiatuic  of    the  ' 
I    u^eil    to   read   each  book    as    it    c  , 
out,  but  .It  ki-a   found  s.'itiety.     The        • 
novel  palls,      for  my  own    comfort  I 
tc;    in\ent    a   new    i)l,ui   to    stimukiti 
interest.      I  will  tell   you  about  it.      1  '     •. 
ten  ;it   .1  liiiie,  spiead    tliem  on    the  ; 
in  flout    of   nu',  and  re.ad   e.ich  i  ha]  ■'    'i 
sueceN.Mon. " 

"  Isn't  that  ,1  little  confuting?  " 

"Not    ,it    .ill."    s.iid    Htspard    gi, 
"I'laetice    enables    one    to    keep  .'ill 

tilRt." 

"  I'.Mf  wh.'it  is  the  good  of  it  .•'  " 
"  Tlii>,"  replied   Despanl;  "you     ^     .; 
eaeh    novel    theie  .ire  certain   siti;" 
Teiiiaps    on    ;in    .average    there    me      •: 
forty    e;icli.     Interesting    (di.iracters   .;/■ 
in  i\'  a\'eiM<'('   ten    e.ieh.      Tluillin"    m     .!- 


i  1    no  C'.il!  olic    (  Iiiii  I  h 


1   w 


M\e     tW  t  nt\        e.K  il.       <  >\ CI'W  luimiii' 


C.U 


vou     the     honor 


>i      I 


ny     jiiesence    at    phes     hlueii     (■.iidi. 


Now     bv     I' 


Trinity, 


novels    singly 


the     effect    of    all    tl 


weakened,  f 

carh   in    its 

wlieie  you  n 

h.ive  the  agj^ 

one    combiii 

books  which 

hiimlied    thi 

and  fifty  ovt 

luiiulred  int( 

hundred  situ 

tioii.     Do  y( 

tage  there  is 

this  rule  I  h; 

somewhat    j; 

abreast   of   t 

"  What   ar 

you  read  all 

one  eould  w 

thi'  same  prii 

write  very  mi 

"  !   thiid<    I 

pi'fieiit    I    an 

learned  treati 

nf  tl,e  Mos.aie 

"  The-wh, 

ilie.ilhlcsily. 

"  riie.Syml 

Keo.'i'iiny,"  sa 

•■  .\nd  is  th 

"  Ail  my  ov 

"  'I'iicn  pr.iy 

title  is  I'liougl 

I   tl'  '  s    not 

unliiiary     nu-i 

laaie.  ' 

"  i'\e  been 
"0,"  said  Desp 
tli.it  1  ni.ay  ft 
^.i^e  ;,(inic'  trc 
''I  jna  .as  nun 
'■  And  i\o  yt 
lain  les  .-*  " 

"  N'o,  fi.iid< 
that  liM,-  the  c 
,  '■  Ijut   do    n 


THE    BADINAOF,    OF    Ol.I)    FRIENDS 


83 


. 


l;it<:  ;;:y 
1  I   '.c 
ic  t   ■  :o 


al 


nil   ^<     iii 

Ilia;,    i"-' 
tcis   .■'■-o 

S(  '  in'S 

cat  I  .'Ki 


wiMkoncd,  for  you  only  li;ive  the  work  of 
^■■li\\  in  its  divided,  isolated  state,  but 
win  le  you  read  aecordini;  to  my  plan  you 
h.ivc  the  aggregate  of  all  these  effects  in 
one  combined — that  is  to  say,  in  ten 
l)oi)ks  which  I  read  at  once  I  have  two 
humlied  thrilling  scenes,  one  hundred 
ami  lifly  overwhelming  catastrophes,  one 
luiiulrod  interesting  characters,  and  four 
luiailred  situations  of  absorbing  fascina- 
tion. Do  you  not  see  what  an  advan 
ta;a.-  there  is  in  my  i)lan  ?  l]y  followin..^ 
till-,  rule  I  have  been  able  to  stimulate  a 
somewhat  jaded  api^ctite,  and  to  keep 
abreast   of    the  literature   of   the    day." 

"  What  an  admirable  plan  I  And  do 
you  read  all  books  in  that  way  ?  Why, 
one  lanild  write  ten  no^'els  at  a  tinu'  im 
the  ^ame  princii)le,  and  i'  so  he  ought  to 
wild'  very  much  better." 

"  1  think  I  will  try  it  some  day.  At 
piTi'.iit  I  am  busily  engaged  with  a 
liMir.cd  treatise  on  the  Synd)ulical  Nature 
nfil.r  Mosaic  Economy,  and " 

"  I'he— what  ?  "  cried  Mrs,  Thornton 
lii'Mihlrssly.      "  What    was    that  ?  " 

■■  1  he  SvmboHial  Nature  of  the  Mosaic 
F,.  (jiininv,"  said    Dt'sjjard    placidly. 

■■  .\iid  is  the  title  all  ytnir  own  ?  " 

"  Aii  my  own." 

"  Tht-'n  pray  don't  write  thebook.  The 
title  is  t'liough.  l'nbli-.h  that,  and  see  if 
1!  il'  '  s  not  of  itself,  by  its  own  extra- 
onlinuy  merits,  bring  you  undymg 
t.ina'.  ■ 

"i'\','l)een  tiiiid<mg  si  1  iouslv  of  doing 
CO,  "  said  Despard,  "  and  1  don't  know  but 
that  1  in.ay  follow  your  advice.  It  will 
sa'' f  some  trouble,  and  peilKijis  amount 
til  jii^l  as  nuicli   in  the  end." 

'■  .\nd  do  you  oftt'u  havi'  such  bi  illiant 

(.IIU  Us  .''  " 

"  N'o.  frankly,    not    oft-  n.     1    consider 

lli:ilti:i!-  the  one  great  idt\i  of  mv  life." 

"  Liut    tlo    nut    dwell    too    much    u|)on 


that,"  said  IMrs.  Thornton,  in  a  warning 
voice.     "  It  might  make  you  conceiteil." 

"  Do  you  think  so?"  rejoined  the  other, 
with  a  shudder.  "  Do  you  really  think 
so  ?  I  hope  not.  At  any  rate  I  hope  you 
do  not  like  conceited  people  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Am  I  conceited  ?  " 

"  No.  1  like  you,"  continued  Mrs. 
Thornton,  with  a  slight  bow  and  a  wave 
of  the  hand,  which  she  accompanied  with 
a  smile. 

"  And  I  like  you,"  said  Despard  in  the 
same  tone. 

"  Von  could  not  do  less." 

"  This,"  said  Despard,  with  an  air  of 
thoughtful  seriousness,  "is  a  solemn 
occasion.  After  such  a  tender  confession 
from  each  of  us  what  remains  to  be  done  ? 
What  is  it  that  the  novels  lay  down  .''  " 

"I'm  sure,"  returned  Mrs.  Thornton, 
with  the  same  assumed  '-'enuiity,  "  it  is 
not  for  me  to  say.  \  ai  -ii^st  make  the 
proposition." 

"  We  cannot  du  anything  less  than  tly 
together," 

"  I  should  think  not." 


I  hit  \vlier( 


J  " 


"And  not  oiiK  where,  but  how.''  By 
rail.  i)y  steamboat,  01  by  canal.'  A 
cinal  strikes  me  as  the  best  moile  of 
Ihght.      It    is    secluded," 

'■  free  from  ol)ser\  .ition,"  said  Despard. 

"  <]uiet."  rejoined  Mis,  Thornton. 

'■  I'oetic," 

"  Remote." 

"  L'nfrieniled." 

"  Solilarv." 

"  Slow." 

"  And,  best  of  all,  hitherto  untried." 

"  \  !•>-.  lis  novelty  is  undeniable." 

"  S<.j  much  so,  "  said  Mrs.  Thornton, 
"  that  it  overwhelms  one.  It  is  a  bright' 
original  iilea,  and  in  these  days  of  com- 
monplace is  il  not  cretlilable?     The  idea 


.1 

3 


84 


COKD    AND   CREESE 


is  mine,  sir,  and  I  will  match  it  with  your 
— wliat  ?— your  Symbolical  Nature  of  the 
Mosaic  Cosmogony." 

"Economy." 

"  But  Cosniogoiny  is  better.  Allow 
me  to  suggest  it  by  way  of  a  change." 

"It  must  be  so,  since  you  say  it;  but 
I  have  a  weakness  for  the  word  Economy. 
It  is  derived  from  the  Greek " 

"  Greek  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Thornton, 
raising  her  hands.  "  You  surely  are  not 
going  to  be  so  ungenerous  as  to  quote 
Gree'f !  Am  I  not  a  lady  }  Will  you  be 
so  base  as  to  tare  me  at  a  disadvantage 
in  that  way  ?" 

"  I  am  thoroughly  ashamed  of  myself, 
and  you  may  consiacr  that  a  tacit  apology 
is  going  on  within  my  mind  whenever  I 
see  you." 

"  You  are  forgiven,"  said  Mrs.  Thorn- 
ton. I 

"  I  cannot  conceive  how  I  could  have 
so  iu:  iorgotten  myself.  I  do  not  usually 
speak  Greek  to  ladies.  1  consider  it  my 
duty  to  make  myself  agreeable.  And 
you  have  no  idea  how  agrecal)le  I  can  j 
make  myself,  if  I  '.'"y."  ' 

"  I  ?     I  have  no  i  lea  ?     Is  it  you  who 
say  that,  and   to   m.'  ?  '  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Thornton,   in   that   siiglit    melodramatic 
tone  which  she  had  employed  thus  far, ' 
somewhat  exaggerated.     "  After  what  I  \ 
told  you— of  my  feelings  }  "  '■ 

"  I  see  I  shall  have  to  devote  all  the 
rest  of  my  life  to  making  apologies." 

"  No.  Do  not  make  apologies.  Avoid 
your  besetting  sins.  Otherwise,  fond  as 
I  am  of  you"— and  she  s|)okc  wilh 
exaggerated  solemnity—"  I  must  regard 
you   as  a  failure." 

The  conversation  went  on  uninter- 
ruptedly in  this  style  for  some  time.  It 
ajjpeared  to  suit  each  of  them.  Des- 
pard's  face,  naturally  grave,  assisted  him 
toward    maintaining    the    mock-serious 


tone  whicli  he  chose  to  adopt ;  and  Mrs. 
Thornton's  peculiar  style  of  face  gave 
her  the  same  advantage.  It  pleased 
each  to  express  for  the  other  an  exag. 
gerated  sentiment  of  regard.  They  con. 
sidered  it  banter  and  badinage.  How 
far  it  was  safe  was  another  thing,  Hut 
they  had  known  one  another  years  befuie, 
and  were  only  resuming  the  manner  of 
earlier  times. 

Yet,  after  all,  was  it  safe  for  the  gravp, 
rector  of  Holby  to  adopt  ihe  inflated 
style  of  a  troubadour  in  addressing  the 
Lady  of  Thornton  Grange?  Neither  of 
them  thought  of  it.  They  simply  ini- 
proved  the  shinn>g  hour  after  this  fasiiion, 
until  at  length  the  conversation  was 
interrupted  by  the  opening  of  fijlding. 
doors,  and  the  entrance  of  a  servant  who 
announced — dinner. 

On  entering  the  dining  room  Desjiard 
was  greeted  with  respectful  formality  hy 
the  master  of  the  house.  He  was  a  man 
of  about  forty,  with  the  professional  air 
of  the  lawyer  about  him,  and  an  abstracted 
expression  of  face,  such  as  usually  belongs 
to  one  who  is  deeply  engrossed  in  the  cares 
of  business,  llis  tone,  in  spite  of  its 
friendliness,  w.is  naturally  stiff,  and  was 
in  marked  contrast  to  the  warmth  of 
Mrs.    Thornton's   greeting. 

"  How  do  you  like  your  new  quarters?" 
he  asked,  as  they  sat  down. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Despard.  "  It  is 
more  my  home,  you  know,  than  any 
other  place.  I  lived  there  so  many  years 
as  schoolboy  with  Mr.  Carson  that  it 
seems  natural  to  take  up  my  station  there 
as  home." 

Mr.  Thornton  relapsed  into  his  abstrac- 
tion while  Desp.'ird  was  speaking,  who 
directetl  the  remainder  of  his  conversa- 
tion to  Mrs.  Thornton. 

It  was  light,  idle  chat,  in  thesam>''one 
as  that  in  which  they  iiad  before  indulged, 


Once  or  twi 
travagant  rei 
u|)  in  perplexi 
on  seeing  thei 
They  had  . 
meaning  of 
to-morrow." 
meant  the  sar 
insisted  that  i 
lo-niurrow  cai 
coming,  and 
still  the  day 
theory  witli   < 
Thornton,   aft 
took  the  troul 
length  Into  th( 
eluded  it  triuiT 
'I'lion  the  si 
and  a  probab 
considered.     I 
no  interest  in 
an  invasion  to 
do  nothing.     ] 
military  duty 
The  mention 
discussion  as 
ganger.     Des 
knew  how  it  v 
the  necessities 
simi)ly  impossi 
giiugi:y  or  gu 
Thornton  agai 
law  papers  in 
correctly  writt( 
challenged   hii 
Thornton   hac 
not  examined 
hand,  he  clain 
Thornton,  a 
the  smile  of  a 
telligible  thing; 
Then    follow 
hetween    Desp 
ahout   religion 
cdlaneous  assi 


THE    nADINAG^.    OF    OI,D    FRIENDS 


8S 


Once  or  twice,  at  some  unusually  ex- 
ti;iv;i|,'ant  reniaik,  Mr.  Thornton  looked 
u[)  ill  perplexity,  which  was  not  lessened 
on  seeing  their  perfect  gravity. 

They  had  a  long  discussion  as  to  the 
meaning  of  the  phrase  "  the  day  after 
to-morrow."  Despard  asserted  that  it 
iiicaiif  the  same  as  eternal  duration,  and 
insisted  that  it  must  be  so,  since  when 
to-morrow  came  the  day  after  it  was  still 
coming,  and  when  that  caine  there  was 
still  the  day  after.  He  supported  his 
theory  with  so  much  earnestness  that 
Thornton,  after  listening  for  a  while, 
took  the  trouble  to  go  heavily  and  at 
length  into  the  whole  question,  and  con- 
cluded it  triumphantly  against  Despard, 

Then  the  subject  of  jjolitics  came  up, 
and  a  probable  war  with  France  was 
considered.  Despard  professed  to  take 
no  interest  in  the  subject,  since,  even  if 
an  invasion  took  place,  clergymen  could 
do  nothing.  They  were  exempt  from 
niihtaiy  duty  in  common  with  gangers. 
The  mention  of  this  brought  on  a  long 
discussion  as  to  the  spelling  of  the  word 
ganger.  Despard  asserted  that  nobody 
knew  how  it  was  spelled,  and  that,  from 
the  necessities  of  human  nature,  it  was 
simply  impossible  to  tell  whether  it  was 
i;iXUi;cr  or  guager.  This  brought  out 
Thornton  again,  who  mentioned  several 
law  papers  in  which  the  word  had  been 
correctly  written  by  his  clerks.  Despard 
challenged  him  on  this,  and,  because 
Thornton  had  to  confess  that  he  had 
not  examined  the  word,  dictionary  in 
hand,  he  claimed  a  victory  over  him. 

Thornton,  at  this,  looked  away,  with 
the  smile  of  a  man  who  is  talking  unin- 
telligible things  to  a  child. 

Then  followed  a  long  conversation 
bulween  Despard  antl  Mrs.  Thornton 
about  religion,  art,  m.usic,  and  a  mis- 
cellaneous assemblage  of  other  things, 


which  lasted  for  a  long  tin\e.  At  length 
he  rose  to  go.  Mrs.  Thornion  went  to  a 
side  table  aiul  took  up  a  book. 

"  Here,"  said  she,  "  is  the  little  book 
you  lent  me  ;  I  ought  to  have  sent  it, 
but   I  thought  you  would  come  for  it." 

"And  so  I  will,"  said  he,  "some  day." 

"  Come  for  it  to-morrow." 

"Will  you  be  at  home?" 

"  Yes." 

"Then  of  course  I'll  come.  And  now 
I  must  tear  myself  away.     Good-night !  " 

On  the  following  day,  at  about  two 
o'clock,  Despard  called  again.  Mrs. 
Thornton  had  been  writing,  and  the  desk 
was  strewn  with  papers. 

"  I  know  I  am  disturbing  you,"  said  he, 
after  the  usual  greetings.  "  I  see  that 
you  are  writing,  so  I  will  not  stay  but  a 
moment.  I  have  come,  you  know,  after 
that  little  book," 

"  Indeed,  you  are  not  disturbing  me  at 
all,  I  have  been  trying  to  continue  a  let- 
ter which  I  began  to  my  brother  a  month 
ago.     There  is  no  hurry  about  it." 

"And  how  is  Paolo?" 

"  I  have  not  heard  for  some  time,  I 
ought  to  hear  soon.  He  went  to  America 
last  summer,  and  I  have  not  had  a  word 
from  him  since.  My  letter  is  of  no  im- 
portance, I  assure  you,  and  now,  since 
you  are  here,  you  shall  not  go.  Indeed, 
I  only  touched  it  a  minute  ago.  I  have 
been  looking  at  some  pictures  till  I  am  so 
begrimed  and  inundated  with  dust  that  I 
feel  as  though  I  had  been  resolved  into 
my  original  element."  And  she  held  up 
her  hands  with  a  pretty  gesture  of  horror, 

Despard  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  as 
she  stood  in  her  bright  beauty  before  him, 
A  sudden  expression  of  pain  flashed  over 
his  face,  succeeded  by  his  usual  smile, 

"  Dust  never  before  took  so  fair  a 
form,"  he  said,  and  sat  down,  looking  on 
the  floor. 


— f 

•  -*■ 

cxr 

11:  .ij 

■  *••••* 


86 


CORD    AND    CREESE 


"  For  unfailing  power  of  compliment, 
for  an  unending  supply  of  neat  and  pretty 
speeches,  commend  mc  to  the  Rev. 
Courteiiay  Despard." 

"  Yet,  singularly  enough,  no  one  else 
ever  dreamed  that  of  me." 

•'  You  were  always  so." 

"  With  you." 

"  In  the  old  days." 

"  Now  lost  forever." 

Their  voices  sank  low  and  expressive 
of  a  deep  melancholy.  A  silence  followed. 
Despard  at  last,  with  a  sudden  effort, 
began  talking  in  his  usual  extravagant 
strain  about  badgers  till  at  last  Mrs. 
Thornton  began  to  laugh,  and  the  radi- 
ancy of  their  spirits  was  restored. 
"  Strange,"  said  he,  taking  up  a  prayer- 
book  with  a  pecuha/  binding,  on  which 
there  was  a  curiously  intertwisted  figure 
in  gilt.  "  That  pattern  has  been  in  my 
thoughts  and  dreams  for  a  week." 

"  How  so  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  saw  it  in  your  hands  last 
Sunday,  and  my  eyes  were  drawn  to  it 
till  its  whole  figure  seemed  to  stamp  itself 
on  my  mind.  See  !  I  can  trace  it  from 
memory,"  And,  taking  his  cane,  he 
traced  the  curiously  involved  figure  on 
the  carpet. 

"  And  were  your  thoughts  fixed  on 
nothing  better  than  that  ?  " 

"  I  was  engaged  in  worship,"  was  the 
reply,  with  marked  empliasis. 

"I  must  take  another  book  next  time." 

"  Do  not.  You  will  only  force  me  to 
study  another  pattern." 

Mrs.  Thornton  laughed  lightly,  and 
Despard  looked  at  her  with  a  smile. 

"I'm  afraid  your  thoughts  wander," 
she  said  lightly,  "as  mine  do.  There  is 
no  excuse  for  you.  There  is  for  me. 
For  you  know  I'm  like  Naaman  ;  I  have 
to  bow  my  head  in  the  temple  of  Baal. 
After  all,"  she  continued,  in  a  more  seri- 


ous voice,  "  I  suppose  I  shall  be  .ihli 
some  day  to  worship  before  my  own  alt.ir, 
for,  do  you  know,  I  expect  to  end  my  days 
in  a  convent." 

"And  why?" 

"  For  the  purpose  of  perfect  religious 
seclusion." 

Uespard  looked  at  her  earnestly  for  a 
moment.  Then  his  usual  smile  broke 
out. 

"  Wherever  you  go  let  me  know,  and 
I'll  take  up  my  abode  outside  the  walls 
and  come  and  look  at  you  every  ilay 
through  the  grating." 

"  And  would  that  be  a  help  to  a  reli- 
gious  lifp  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  not ;  but  I'll  tell  you  what 
would  be  a  help.  Be  a  Sister  of  Cliaiiiy, 
I'll  be  a  Paulist.  I'll  devote  myself  lo  the 
sick.  Then  you  and  I  can  go  togethn  ; 
and  when  you  are  tired  I  can  assist  you. 
I  think  that  idea  is  much  better  than 
yours." 

"Oh,  very  much,  indeed!"  said  Mi>, 
Thornton,  with  a  strange,  sad  look. 

"  I  remember  a  boy  and  girl  who  once 
used  to  go  hand   in   hand   over  yonder 

shore,  and "   He   stopped   suddenly, 

and  then  hastily  added, "  and  now  it  would 
be  very  sad,  and  therefore  very  absuid.  in 
one  of  them  to  bring  up  old  menioiics." 

Mrs.  Thornton  suddenly  rose,  and, 
walking  to  the  window,  looked  out.  "I 
wonder  if  it  will  rain  to-day  !  "  she  said, 
in  a  sweet  voice,  full  of  a  tremulous 
melancholy. 

"  There  are  very  dark  clouds  about, ' 
returned  Despard  mournfully. 

"  I  hope  there  will  not  be  a  storm," 
she  rejoined,  with  the  same  sadness. 
Her  hands  were  held  tightly  together. 
"  Some  things  will  perish  if  a  storm 
comes." 

"  Let  us  pray  that  there  may  be  calm 
and  peace,"  said  Despard. 


)C    ,ll)li 

n  alt. If, 
ny  (lays 


TWO    LETTERS  8y 

She  turned   and  looked    at    him    for  ^-loom  !    Their  eyes  met,  and  each  read 


a    moment.     Strange    that    these    two 
should  pass  so  quickly  from  gayety  to 


in  the  face  of  the  other  sadness  beyond 
words. 


eligious 


ly  (or  a 
;    broke 


CHAPTER    XIV 


low,  and 
he  walls 
^ery  day 

to  a  icli- 


TWO   LEITERS 


Despard  did  not  go  back  to  the 
(Iiangc  for  some  days.  About  a  week 
had  passed  since  the  scenes  narrated  in 
the  preceding  chapter  when  one  ir  jrning, 
haviiij,'  finished  his  breakfast,  he  went 
into  his  library  and  sat  down  at  the  taljle 
to  write.  A  litter  of  papers  lay  all  around. 
The  walls  were  covered  with  slielves 
filled  with  books.  The  table  was  piled 
hi[;!i  with  ponderous  tomes.  Manuscripts 
weie  strewn  around,  and  books  were 
scattered  on  the  floor.  Yet,  amid  all 
this  disorder,  some  order  was  apparent, 
for  many  of  these  books  lay  open  in  cer- 
tain places,  and  others  were  arranged  so 
as  to  be  within  reach. 

.Several  sheets  of  paper,  covered  with 
writing,  lay  before  him,  licaded,  "  The 
Byzantine  Poets."  The  books  were  all 
in  Greek.  It  was  the  library  of  a  hard- 
working student. 

Very  different  was  the  Despard  of  the 
lihrary  from  the  Despard  who  had 
visited  the  Grange.  A  stern  and 
thoughtful  expression  was  read  in  his 
face,  and  his  eyes  had  an  abstraction 
which  would  have  done  credit  to  Mr. 
Thoiiiton  himself. 

Taking  his  seat  at  the  table,  he  re- 
mained for  a  while  leaning  his  head  on 
his  hand  in  deep  thought.  Then  he 
look  up  a  pen  and  drew  a  piece  of  paper 
before  him  to  try  it.     He  began  to  draw 


upon  it  the  same  figure  which  he  had 
marked  with  his  ca  le  on  Mrs.  Thorn- 
ton's carpet.  He  traced  this  figure  over 
and  over  until  at  last  the  whole  sheet 
was  f^overed. 

Suddenly  he  flung  down  the  pen,  and 
taking  up  the  paper,  leaned  back  in  his 
chair  with  a  melancholy  face.  "  What  a 
poor,  weak  thing  1  am  !  "  he  muttered  at 
last,  and  let  the  paper  fall  to  the  floor. 
He  leaned  his  li.id  on  his  hand,  then 
resumed  his  pen  and  began  to  make 
some  idle  marks.  At  length  he  began 
to  draw. 

Under  the  fine  and  delicate  strokes  of 
his  pen,  which  were  as  neat  and  as  ex- 
quisite as  the  most  subtle  touches  of  an 
engraving,  a  picture  gradually  rose  to 
view.  It  was  a  seaside  scene.  The 
place  was  Holby  Beach.  In  the  distance 
was  the  lighthouse ;  and  cri  one  side  a 
promontory,  which  protected  the  harbor. 
Upon  the  shore,  looking  out  toward  the 
sea,  was  a  beautiful  girl  of  about  sixteen 
years  of  age,  whose  featui  s,  as  they  grew 
beneath  his  tender  touches,  were  those  of 
Mrs.  Thornton.  Then  beside  her  there 
gradually  rose  another  figure,  a  youth  of 
about  eighteen,  with  smooth  face  and 
clustering  locks,  who  looked  exactly  like 
what  the  Rev.  Courtenay  Despard  might 
have  been  some  seven  or  eight  years  be- 
fore.   His  left  arm  was  around  her  waist, 


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CORD    AND   CREESE 


her  arm  was  thrown  up  till  it  touched  his 
shoulder,  and  his  right  hand  held  hers. 
Her  head  leaned  against  him,  and  '  oth  of 
them,  with  a  subdued  expression  of  per- 
fect happiness,  tinged  with  a  certain  pen- 
sive sadness,  were  looking  out  upon  the 
setting  sun. 

As  soon  as  he  finished  he  looked  at  the 
sketch,  and  then,  with  a  sudden  impulse, 
tore  it  into  a  thousand  small  fragments. 
He  drew  the  written  manuscript  before 
him  with  a  long  and  deep-drawn  sigh, 
and  began  writing  with  great  rapidity 
upon  the  subject  of  the  Byzantine  poets. 
He  had  just  written  the  following 
words : 

"  The  Anacreontic  hymns  of  John  Dam- 

ascenus  form  a  marked  contrast  to " 

when  the  sentence  was  interrupted 
by  a  knock  at  the  door.  "  Come  in ! " 
It  was  the  servant  with  letters  from  the 
post-otidce.  Despard  put  down  his  pen 
gravely,  and  the  man  laid  two  letters  on 
the  table.  He  waited  till  the  servant  had 
departed,  then  seizing  one  of  them,  a 
small  one,  addressed  in  a  lady's  hand,  he 
pressed  it  vehemently  to  his  lips  and  tore 
it  open. 

It  was  as  follows : 

"  Dear  Mr.  Despard  :  I  suppose  I 
may  never  expev,!  to  see  you  again.  Yet 
I  must  see  you,  for  yesterday  I  received 
a  very  long  letter  from  Paolo  of  so  singu- 
lar a  character  that  you  will  have  to 
explain  it  tu  me.  I  shall  expect  you  this 
afternoon,  and  till  then,  I  remain, 
"  Yours  ililcerely, 

"  Teresa  Thornton. 

"  Thornton  Grange,  Friday." 

Despard  read  this  letter  a  score  of 
times,  and  placed  it  reverently  in  an  inner 
drawer  of  his  desk.  He  then  opened 
the  other,  and  read  as  follows : 


"Halifax.  Nova  Scotia, 
"January  12,  1847. 

"  Mv  Dear  Courtenay  :  I  was 
very  glad  to  hear  of  your  appointment 
as  rector  of  Holby,  your  old  home,  and 
hope  that  by  this  time  you  are  fully 
established  in  the  old  rectory,  where 
you  spent  so  many  years.  I  was  there 
often  enough  in  poor  old  Carson's  days 
to  know  that  it  was  a  fine  old  place. 

"You  will  see  by  this  that  I  am  in 
Halifax,  Nova  Scotia.  My  regiment  was 
ordered  off  here  last  November,  and  I  am 
just  beginning  to  feel  settled.  It  is  not 
so  cold  here  as  it  was  in  Quebec.  There 
is  capital  moose  hunting  up  the  country, 
I  don't  admire  my  accommodations 
much ;  but  it  is  not  a  bad  little  town, 
considering  all  things.  The  people  are 
pleasant,  and  there  is  some  stir  and 
gayety  occasionally. 

"  Not  long  before  leaving  Quebec,  who 
do  you  think  turned  up  ?  No  less  a  per- 
son than  Paolo  Langhetti,  who  in  the 
course  of  his  wanderings  came  out  here. 
He  had  known  some  extraordinary  adven- 
tures on  his  voyage  out ;  and  these  are 
the  immediate  cause  of  this  letter. 

"  He  took  passage  early  in  June  last  in 
the  ship  Tecumseh,  from  Liverpool  for 
Quebec.  It  was  an  emigrant  ship,  and 
crammed  with  passengers.  You  have 
heard  all  about  the  horrors  of  that 
middle  passage,  which  occurred  last  year, 
when  thoae  infernal  Liverpool  merchants, 
for  the  sake  of  putting  a  few  additional 
pounds  in  their  pockets,  sent  so  many 
thousands  to  destruction. 

"  The  Tecumseh  was  one  of  these.  It 
was  crammed  with  emigrants.  You 
know  Langhetti's  extraordinary  pluck, 
and  his  queer  way  of  devoting  himself  for 
others.  Well,  what  did  he  do  but  this : 
as  soon  as  the  ship  fever  broke  out  he 
left  the  cabin  and  took  up  his  abode  in 


■  > 
1, 


TWO   LETTERS 


89 


the  steetage  with  the  sick  emigrants.  He 
is  very  quiet  about  this,  and  merely  says 
that  lie  helped  to  nurse  the  sick.  I  know 
what  that  means. 

"The  mortality  was  terrific.  Of  all 
the  ships  that  came  to  Quebec  in  that 
fatal  summer  the  Tecumseh  showed  the 
largest  record  of  deaths.  On  reaching 
the  quarantine  station  Langhetti  at  once 
insisted  on  continuing  his  attendance  on 
the  sick.  Hands  were  scarce,  and  his 
offer  was  eagerly  accepted.  He  stayed 
down  there  ever  so  long  till  the  worst  of 
the  sickness  was  over. 

"Among  the  passengers  on  the  Te- 
cumseh were  three  who  belonged  to  the 
superior  class.  Their  name  was  Bran- 
don. He  took  a  deep  interest  in  them. 
They  suffered  very  much  from  sickness 
both  during  the  voyage  and  at  quarantine. 
The  name  at  once  attracted  him,  being 
one  well  known  both  to  him  and  to  us. 
At  last  they  all  died,  or  were  supposed 
to  have  died,  at  the  quarantine  station. 
Langhetti,  however,  found  that  one  of 
them  was  only  in  a  '  trance  state,'  and 
his  efforts  for  resuscitation  were  success- 
ful. This  one  was  a  young  girl  of  not 
more  than  sixteen  years  of  age.  After 
her  restoration  he  left  the  quarantine 
bringing  her  with  him,  and  came  up  to 
the  city.  Here  he  lived  for  a  month  or 
so,  until  at  last  he  heard  of  me  and  came 
to  see  me. 

"  Of  course  I  was  delighted  to  see  him, 
for  I  always  thought  him  the  noblest 
fellow  that  ever  breathed,  though  most 
undoubtedly  cranky  if  not  crazy.  I  told 
iiim  we  were  going  to  Halifax,  and  as  he 
had  no  settled  plan  I  made  him  come 
here  with  me. 

"  The  girl  remained  for  a  long  time  in 
a  state  of  mental  torpor,  as  though  her 
brain  had  been  affected  by  disease,  but 
ihc  journey  here  had  a  beneficial  effect  ni 


her,  and  during  her  stay  she  has  steadily 
improved.  About  a  week  ago  Langhetti 
ventured  to  ask  her  all  about  her- 
self. 

"  What  will  you  say  when  I  tell  you 
that  she  is  the  daughter  of  poor  Ralph 
Brandon,  of  Brandon  Hall,  your  father's 
friend,  whose  wretched  fate  has  made  us 
all  so  miserable.  You  know  nothing  of 
this,  of  course ;  but  where  was  Thorn- 
ton ?  Why  did  not  he  do  something  to 
prevent  this  horror,  this  unutterable 
calamity  ?  Good  God  !  what  suffering 
there  is  in  this  world  ! 

"  Now,  Courtenay,  I  come  to  the  point. 
This  poor  Edith  Brandon,  still  half  dead 
from  her  grief,  has  been  able  to  tell  us 
that  she  has  still  a  relative  living.  Her 
eldest  brother  Louis  went  to  Australia 
many  years  ago.  A  few  weeks  before 
her  father's  death  he  wrote  to  his  son 
telling  him  everything,  and  imploring  him 
to  come  home.  She  thinks  that  her 
brother  must  be  in  England  by  this 
time. 

"  I  want  you  to  hunt  up  Louis  Brandon. 
Spare  no  trouble.  In  the  name  of  God, 
and  by  the  memory  of  your  father,  whose 
most  intimate  friend  was  this  poor  old 
Brandon,  I  entreat  you  to  search  after 
Louis  Brandon  till  you  find  him,  and  let 
him  know  the  fate  of  his  friends.  I 
think,  if  she  could  see  him,  the  joy  of 
meeting  one  relative  would  restore  her  to 
health. 

"  My  boy,  I  know  I  have  said  enough. 
Your  own  heart  will  impel  you  to  do  all 
that  can  be  done  for  the  sake  of  this  poor 
young  girl.  You  can  find  out  the  best 
ways  of  learning  information.  You  had 
better  go  up  at  once  to  London  and  make 
arrangements  for  finding  Brandon.  Write 
me  soon,  and  let  me  know. 

"  Your  affectionate  uncle, 

"Henry  Despard." 


as 

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CORD   AND   CREESE 


Despard  read  this  letter  over  and  over. 
Then  he  put  it  in  his  pocket,  and  walked 
up  and  down  the  room  in  deep  thought. 
Then  he  took  out  Mrs.  Thornton's  note 
and  studied  it  for  a  long  time.  So  the 
hours  passed  away,  until  at  length  two 
o'clock  came  and  he  set  out  for  Thornton 
Grange. 

On  entering  the  drawing  room,  Mrs. 
Thornton  was  there. 

"  So  you  have  come  at  last,"  said  she, 
as  they  shook  hands. 

"  As  if  I  would  not  come  ten  times  a 
day  if  I  could,"  was  the  answer,  in  an 
impetuous  voice. 

"  Still  there  is  no  reason  why  you 
should  persistently  avoid   the  Grange." 

"  What  would  you  say  if  I  followed  my 
own  impulse,  and  came  here  every  day  ?  " 

"  I  would  say,  Good-morning,  sir. 
Still,  now  that  you  are  here,  you  must  stay." 

"  I  will  stay,  whether  I  must  or  not." 

"Have  you  recovered  from  the  effect 
of  my  prayer-book  yet  ?  " 

"  No,  nor  ever  will  I.  You  brought 
the  same  one  last  Sunday." 

"That  was  in  order  to  weaken  the 
effect.  Familiarity  breeds  contempt, 
you    know." 

"  Then  all  I  can  say  is,  that  contempt 
has  very  extraordinary  manifestations. 
Among  other  strange  things,  it  makes 
me  cover  my  paper  with  that  pattern 
when  I  ought  to  be  writing  on  the 
Mosaic    Economy." 

"  Cosmogony,  you  mean." 

"  Well  then,  Cosmogony." 

"  Cosmogony  is  such  a  delicious  word ! 
It  has  been  the  hope  of  my  life  to  be 
able  to  introduce  it  in  a  conversation. 
There  is  only  one  other  word  that  com- 
pares with  it." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  I'm  afraid  to  pronounce  it." 

•'  Try,  at  any  rate." 


"  Idiosyncrasy,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton. 
"For  five  or  six  years  I  have  been  on 
the  lookout  for  an  opportunity  to  use 
that  word,  and  thus  far  I  have  been 
unsuccessful.  I  fear  that,  if  the  oppor- 
tunity did  occur,  I  would  call  it  'idio- 
cracy.'    In  fact,  I  know  I  would." 

"  And  what  would  be  the  difference  ? 
Your  motive  would  be  right,  and  it  is  to 
motives  that  we  must  look,  not  acts." 

After  some  further  badinage,  Mrs. 
Thornton  drew  a  letter  from  her  pocket. 

"  Here,"  said  she  gravely,  "  is  Paolo's 
letter.  Read  it,  and  tell  me  what  you 
think  of  it." 

Despard  took  the  letter  and  beg^u  to 
read,  while  Mrs.  Thornton,  sitting  oppo- 
site to  him,  watched  his  face. 

The  letter  was  in  Italian,  and  was 
accompanied  by  a  large  and  closely 
written  manuscript  of  many  pages. 

"  Halifax,  Nova  Scotia, 
"January  2,  1847. 

"My  Sweetest  Little  Sister:  I 
send  you  my  diary,  as  I  promised  you, 
my  Teresella,  and  you  will  see  all  my 
adventures.  Take  care  of  yourself,  be 
happy,  and  let  us  hope  that  we  may  see 
one  another  soon.  I  am  well,  through 
the  mercy  of  the  good  God,  and  hope  to 
continue  so.  There  is  no  such  thing  as 
music  in  this  place,  but  I  have  found  an 
organ  where  I  can  play.  My  Cremona 
is  uninjured,  though  it  has  passed  through 
hard  times — it  sends  a  note  of  love  to  my 
Teresina.  Remember  your  Paolo  to  the 
just  and  upright  Thornton,  whom  you 
love.  May  God  bless  my  little  sister's 
husband,  and  fill  his  heart  with  love  for 
the  sweetest  of  children  ! 

"Read  this  manuscript  carefully, 
Teresuola  mia  dolcissima,  and  pray  for 
the  souls  of  those  unhappy  ones  who 
perished  by  the  pestilence," 


CHAPTER  XV 


/  M 


JOURNAL  OF  PAOLO  LANGHETTI 


Liverpool,  June  2,  1846. — I  promised 
you,  my  Teresina,  to  keep  a  diary  of  all 
my  wanderings,  and  now  I  begin,  not 
knowing  whether  it  will  be  worth  read- 
ing or  not,  but  knowing  this:  that  my 
corellina  will  read  it  all  with  equal  in- 
terest, whether  it  be  trivial  or  important. 

I  have  taken  passage  in  the  ship 
Tectimseh  from  Liverpool  to  Quebec.  I 
have  embarked  in  her  for  no  better  reason 
than  this,  that  she  is  the  first  that  will 
sail,  and  I  am  impatient.  The  first  New 
York  ship  does  not  leave  for  a  fortnight. 
A  fortnight  in  Liverpool !    Horror  ! 

I  have  been  on  board  to  secure  my 
room.  I  am  told  that  there  is  a  large 
number  of  emigrants.  It  is  a  pity,  but  it 
cannot  be  helped.  All  ships  have  emi- 
grants now.  Ireland  is  being  evacuated. 
There  will  soon  be  no  peasants  to  till  the 
soil.  What  enormous  misery  must  be 
in  that  most  wretched  of  countries  !  Is 
Italy  worse  ?  Yes,  far  worse  ;  for  Italy 
has  a  past  to  contrast  with  the  present, 
whereas  Ireland  has  no  past. 

At  Sea,  June  4. — We  are  many  miles 
out  in  the  Irish  Channel.  There  are 
six  hundred  emigrants  on  board — men, 
women,  and  children.  I  am  told  that 
most  of  these  are  from  Ireland,  unhappy 
Ireland !  Some  are  from  England,  and 
are  going  to  seek  their  fortune  in  America. 
As  I  look  on  them  I  think,  my  God  ! 
what  misery  there  is  in  this  world  !  And 
yet  what  can  I  do  to  alleviate  it  ?  I  am 
lielpless.  Let  the  world  suffer.  All  will 
be  right  hereafter. 


June  10.— Six  hundred  passengers ! 
They  are  all  crowded  together  in  a  man- 
ner that  is  frightful  to  me.  Comfort  is 
out  of  the  question  ;  the  direst  distress  is 
everywhere  present ;  the  poor  wretches 
only  try  to  escape  suffering.  During 
storms  they  are  shut  in  ;  there  is  little 
ventilation  ;  and  the  horror  that  reigns 
in  that  hold  will  not  let  me  either  eat 
or  sleep.  I  have  remonstrated  with  the 
captain,  but  without  effect.  He  told  me 
that  he  could  do  nothing.  The  owners 
of  the  ship  put  them  on  board,  and  he 
was  employed  to  take  then  to  their 
proper  destination.  My  God  1  what  will 
become  of  them  ? 

June  15. — There  have  been  a  few  days 
of  fine  weather.  The  wrelchec  emigrants 
have  all  been  on  deck.  Am  jng  them  I 
noticed  three  who,  from  thei»  appearance, 
belonged  to  a  different  class.  They  were 
a  lady  with  a  young  man  and  a  young 
girl,  who  were  evidently  her  children. 
The  lady  has  once  been  beautiful,  and 
still  bears  the  traces  of  that  beauty, 
though  her  face  indicates  the  extreme  of 
sadness.  The  son  is  a  man  of  magnifi- 
cent appearance,  though  as  yet  not  full- 
grown.  The  daughter  is  more  lovely 
than  any  being  whom  I  have  ever  seen. 
She  is  different  from  my  Bicetta.  Bice  is 
Grecian,  with  a  face  like  that  of  a  marble 
statue,  and  a  soul  of  purely  classic  mould. 
Bice  is  serene.  She  reminds  me  of 
Artemis.  Bice  is  an  artist  to  her  inmost 
heart.  Bice  I  love  as  I  love  you,  my 
Teresina,  and  I  never  expect  to  meet  with 


L-J.-., 


9* 


99 


CORD   AND  CREESE 


one  who  can  so  interpret  my  ideas  with 
so  divine  a  voice.  But  this  girl  is  more 
spiritual.  Bice  is  classic,  this  one  ii: 
mediaeval.  Bice  is  a  goddess,  this  one  a 
saint.  Bice  is  Artemis,  or  one  of  the 
Muses  ;  this  one  is  Holy  Agnes  or  Saint 
Cecilia.  There  is  in  that  sweet  and  holy 
face  the  same  depth  of  devotion  which 
our  painters  portray  on  the  face  of  the 
Madonna.  This  little  family  group  stand 
amic!  all  the  other  passengers,  separated 
by  the  wide  gulf  of  superior  rank, — for 
they  are  manifestly  from  among  the  upper 
classes,— but  still  more  so  by  the  solemn 
isolation  of  grief.  It  is  touching  to  see 
the  love  of  the  mother  for  her  children  and 
the  love  of  the  children  for  their  mother. 
How  can  I  satisfy  the  longings  which  I 
feel  to  express  to  them  my  sympathy  ? 

June  2\, — I  have  at  length  gained  my 
desire.  I  have  become  acquainted  with 
that  little  group,  I  went  up  to  them  this 
morning  in  obedience  to  a  resistless 
impulse,  and  with  the  most  tender  sym- 
pathy that  I  could  express ;  and,  with 
many  apologies,  offered  the  young  man  a 
bottle  of  wine  for  his  mother.  He  took  it 
gratefully  and  frankly.  He  met  me  half- 
way in  my  advances.  The  poor  lady 
looked  at  me  with  speechless  gratitude, 
as  though  kindness  and  sympathy  were 
unknown  to  her,  "  God  will  reward  you, 
sir,"  she  said,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  "  for 
your  sympathy  with  the  miserable." 

"  Dear  madame,"  said  I,  "  I  wish  no 
other  reward  than  the  consciousness  that 
I  may  have  alleviated  your  distress." 

My  hv.irt  bled  for  these  poor  creatures. 
Cast  down  from  a  life  which  must  have 
once  been  one  of  luxury,  they  were  now 
in  the  foulest  of  places,  the  hold  of  an 
emigrant  ship.  I  went  back  to  the  cap- 
tain to  see  if  I  could  not  do  something  in 
their  behalf.  I  wished  to  give  up  my 
room  to  them.    He  said  I  could  do  so  if  I 


wished,  but  that  there  was  no  room  left 
in  the  cabin.  Had  there  been  I  would 
have  hired  one  and  insisted  on  their  going 
there. 

I  went  to  see  the  lady,  and  made  this 
proposal  as  delicately  as  I  coul  .  There 
were  two  berths  in  my  room.  I  urged 
her  and  her  daughter  to  take  them.  At 
first  they  both  refused  most  positively, 
with  tears  of  gratitude.  But  I  would  not 
be  so  put  off.  To  the  mother  I  portrayed 
the  situation  of  the  daughter  in  that  den 
of  horror ;  to  the  daughter  I  pointed  out 
the  condition  of  the  mother  :  to  the  son 
I  showed  the  position  of  his  mother  and 
sister,  and  thus  I  worked  upon  the  holiest 
feelings  of  their  hearts.  For  myself  I 
assured  them  that  I  could  get  a  place 
among  the  sailors  in  the  forecastle,  and 
that  I  preferred  doing  so.  By  such 
means  as  these  I  moved  them  to  con- 
sent. They  did  so  with  an  expression  of 
thankfulness  that  brought  tears  to  my 
eyes. 

"Dear  madame,"  said  I,  "you  will 
break  my  heart  if  you  talk  so.  Take  the 
room  and  say  nothing.  I  have  been  a 
wanderer  for  years,  and  can  live  any- 
where." 

It  was  not  till  then  that  I  found  out 
their  names.  I  told  them  mine.  They 
looked  at  one  another  in  astonishment. 
"  Langhetti  ?  "  said  the  mother. 

•*  Yes." 

"  Did  you  ever  live  in  Holby  ?  " 

"  Yes.  My  father  was  organist  in 
Trinity  Church,  and  I  and  my  sister 
lived  there  some  years.  She  lives  there 
still." 

"  My  God  ! "  was  her  ejaculation. 

"  Why  ?  "  I  asked  with  eager  curiosity. 
"  What  do  you  know  about  Holby,  and 
about  Langhetti  ?  " 

She  looked  at  me  with  solemn  earnest- 
ness.   "  I/'  said  she,  "  am  the  wife,  and 


am  now,  i 


JOURNAL  OP  PAOLO  LANOHETTl 


93 


these  are  the  children  of  one  who  was 
your  father's  friend.  He  who  was  my 
husband,  and  the  father  of  these  children, 
was  Ralph  Brandon,  of  Brandon  Hall." 

I  stood  for  a  moment  stupefied.  Then 
I  burst  into  tears.  Then  I  embraced 
them  all,  and  said  I  know  not  what  of 
pity  and  sympathy  and  affection.  My 
God!  to  think  of  such  a  fate  as  this 
awaiting  the  family  of  Ralph  Brandon. 
Did  you  know  this,  O  Teresina?  If  so, 
why  did  you  keep  it  secret  ?  But  no — 
you  could  not  have  known  it.  If  you  had 
this  would  not  have  happened. 

They  took  my  room  in  the  cabin — the 
dear  ones — Mrs.  Brandon  and  the  sweet 
Edith.  The  son  Frank  and  I  stay 
together  among  the  emigrants.  Here  I 
am  now,  and  I  write  this  as  the  sun  is 
getting  low,  and  the  uproar  of  all  these 
hundreds  is  sounding  in  my  ears. 

June  30. — There  is  a  panic  in  the  ship* 
The  dread  _  pestilence  known  as  ''ship 
fever  "  has  appeared.  This  disease  is  the 
tenor  of  emigrant  ships.  Surely  there 
was  never  any  vessel  so  well  adapted  to 
be  the  prey  of  the  pestilence  as  this  of 
ours !  I  have  lived  for  ten  days  among 
the  steerage  passengers,  and  have  wit- 
nessed their  misery.  Is  God  just  ?  Can 
he  look  down  unmoved  upon  scenes  like 
these  ?  Now  that  the  disease  has  come, 
where  will  it  stop  ? 

July  3. — The  disease  is  spreading. 
Fifteen  are  prostrate.    Three  have  died. 

July  10. — Thirty  deaths  have  occurred, 
and  fifty  are  sick.  I  am  assisting  to 
nurse  them. 

July  1 5. — Thirty-four  deaths  since  my 
last.  One  hundred  and  thirty  are  sick. 
I  will  labor  here  if  I  have  to  die  for  it. 

July  18. — If  this  is  my  last  entry  let 
this  diary  be  sent  to  Mrs.  Thornton,  care 
of  William  Thornton,  Holby,  Pembroke, 
England — [the  above  entry  was  written 


in  English,  the  remainder  was  all  in 
Italian  as  before].  More  than  two  hun- 
dred are  sick.  Frank  Brandon  is  down. 
I  am  afraid  to  let  his  mother  know  it.  I 
am  working  night  and  day.  In  three 
days  there  have  been  forty-seven  deaths. 
The  crew  are  demoralized  and  panic- 
stricken. 

Jtily  23. — Shall  I  survive  these  horrors  ? 
More  than  fifty  new  deaths  have  occurred. 
The  disease  has  spread  among  the 
sailors.  Two  are  dead,  and  seven  are 
sick.  Horror  prevails.  Frank  Brar  >n 
is  recovering  slowly.  Mrs.  Brat,  tn 
does  not  know  that  he  has  been  su  . 
We  send  word  that  we  are  afraid  to  come 
for  fear  of  communicating  the  disease  to 
her  and  to  Edith. 

July  27. — More  than  half  of  the  sailors 
are  sick.  Eleven  dead.  Sixty-seven  pas- 
sengers dead  since  last  report.  Frank 
Brandon  almost  well,  and  helping  me 
in  my  work. 

July  30. — Nearly  all  the  sailors  more 
or  less  sick — five  new  deaths  among  them. 
Ship  almost  unmanageable.  In  the  Gulf 
of  St.  Lawrence.  Talk  of  putting  into 
some  port.    Seventy  passengers  dead. 

August  2. — Worse  yet.  Disease  has 
spread  into  the  cabin.  Three  cabin  pas- 
sengers dead.  God  have  mercy  upon 
poor  M.s  Brandon  and  sweet  Edith! 
All  the  steerage  passengers,  with  a  few 
exceptions,  prostrate.  Frank  Brandon  is 
weak,  but  helps  me.  I  work  night  and 
day.  The  ship  is  like  a  floating  pest- 
house.  Forty  new  deaths  since  last 
report. 

August  7. — Drifting  along,  I  know  not 
how,  up  the  St.  Lawrence.  The  weather 
calm,  and  iwo  or  three  sailors  able  to 
manage  the  ship.  Captain  and  mate 
both  dead.  Ten  cabin  passengers  dead. 
Three  more  sailors  dead.  Only  thirty- 
two  steerage  passengers  dead  since  last 


c/.c 

t.  jtj 
411., 

'•■3ii'ii»»ffm 


94 


CORD    AND    CREESE 


report,  but  nearly  all  are  sick.    Hardly 
anyone  to  attend  them. 

Au^fust  lo. — Mrs.  Brandon  and  Edith 
both  sick.  Frank  prostrate  again.  God 
in  heaven,  have  mercy  ! 

August  15. — Mrs.  Brandon  and  Edith 
very  low.    Frank  better. 

August  16,  Quarantine  Station,  Gosxe 
Island. — I  feel  the  fever  in  my  veins.  If 
I  die,  farewell,  sweetest  sister. 

December  28,  Halifax,  Nova  Scotia. — 
More  than  four  months  have  elapsed 
since  my  last  entry,  and  during  the 
interval  marvellous  things  have  occurred. 
These  I  will  now  try  to  recall  as  I  best 
can. 

My  last  entry  was  made  on  the  day  of 
the  arrival  of  the  Tecumseh  at  the  Quar- 
antine Station,  Gosse  Island,  Quebec. 
We  were  delayed  there  for  two  days. 
Everything  was  in  confusion.  A  large 
number  of  ships  had  arrived,  and  all  were 
filled  with  sick.  The  authorities  were 
taken  by  surprise ;  and  as  no  arrange- 
ments had  ever  been  made  for  such  a 
state  of  things  the  suffering  was  extreme. 
The  arrival  of  the  Tecumseh  with  her 
frightful  record  of  deaths,  and  with 
several  hundred  sick  still  on  board,  com- 
pleted the  confusion.  At  last  the  pas- 
sengers were  removed  somehow,  I  know 
not  how  or  when,  for  I  myself  on  the 
evening  of  our  arrival  was  struck  down 
by  the  fever.  I  suppose  that  Frank 
Brandon  may  have  nursed  me  at  first ; 
but  of  that  I  am  not  sure.  There  was 
fearful  disorder.  There  were  few  nurses 
and  fewer  doctors ;  and  as  fast  as  the 
sick  died  they  were  hurried  hastily  into 
shallow  graves  in  the  sand.  I  was  sick 
for  two  or  three  weeks,  and  knew  noth- 
ing of  what  was  going  on.  The  first 
thing  that  I  saw  on  coming  to  my  senses 
was  Edith  Brandon. 
She  was  fearfully  changed.     Unutter- 


able grief  dwe.  upon  her  sweet  young 
face,  which  also  was  pale  and  wan  from 
the  sickness  through  which  she  haci 
passed.  An  awful  feeling  shot  throiij^h 
me.  My  first  question  was,  "  Is  your 
mc  :her  on  shore  ?  " 

She  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  in 
solemn  silence,  and,  slowly  raising  iier 
hand,  pointed  upward. 

"  Your  brother  ?  "  I  gasped. 

She  turned  her  head  away.  I  was 
silent.  They  were  dead,  then.  O  God  ! 
and  this  child— what  had  she  not  been 
suffering?  My  mind  at  once,  in  its 
agony  of  sympathy  with  her,  burst 
through  the  clouds  which  sickness  had 
thrown  around  it.  "  Poor  child ! "  I  said. 
"  And  why  are  you  here  ?  " 

"  Where  else  can  I  go  ?  "  she  answered 
mournfully. 

"  At  least,  you  should  not  wear  yourself 
out  by  my  bedside." 

"  You  are  the  only  one  left  whom  I 
know.  I  owe  you  far  more  than  tiie 
small  attendance  which  I  have  given 
you." 

•'  But  will  you  not  take  some  rest  ?  " 

"  Hush !  Wait  till  you  are  stronger. 
You  are  too  weak  now  to  think  of  tliese 
things." 

She  laid  her  thin  hand  on  my  forehead 
gently.  I  turned  my  head  away,  and 
burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  Why  was  it 
that  this  child  was  called  upon  to  endure 
such  agony  ?  Why,  in  the  midst  of  ihat 
agony,  did  she  come  to  me  to  save  my 
life? 

I  did  not  resist  her  any  longer  on  that 
day;  but  the  next  day  I  was  stronger, 
and  made  her  go  and  repose  herself. 

For  two  successive  days  she  came 
back.  On  the  third  day  she  did  not 
fppear.  The  fourth  day  also  she  was 
absent.  Rude  nurses  attended  to  me. 
They  knew  nothing  of  her.     My* anxiety 


JOURNAL  OF  PAOLO  LANGHETTI 


95 


inspired  me  with  such  energy  that  on  the 
fourth  day  I  rose  from  my  bed  and 
staggered  about  to  find  her  if  possible. 

All  was  still  confusion.  Thousands  of 
sick  were  on  the  island.  The  mistake  of 
the  first  week  had  not  yet  been  repaired. 
No  one  knew  anything  of  Edith.  I 
sought  her  through  all  the  wards.  I 
went  to  the  superintendent,  and  forced 
him  to  make  enquiries  about  her.  No 
one  could  tell  anything. 

My  despair  was  terrible.  I  forced  the 
superintendent  to  call  up  all  the  nurses 
and  doctors,  and  question  them  all,  one 
by  one.  At  last  an  old  Irishwoman, 
with  an  awful  look  at  me,  hinted  that  she 
could  tell  something  about  her,  and 
whispered  a  word  or  two  in  the  supern- 
tenclent's  ear.  He  started  back,  with  a 
fearful  glance. 

"  What  is  it  ?    Tell,  in  God's  name ! " 

"  The  dead-house,"  he  murmured. 

"  Where ,  is  it  ?  Take  me  there ! "  I 
cried  to  the  woman.  I  clutched  her  arm 
and  staggered  after  her. 

It  was  a  long,  low  shed,  open  on  all 
sides.  Twelve  bodies  lay  there.  In  the 
middle  of  the  row  was  Edith.  She  was 
more  beautiful  than  an  angel.  A  smile 
wreathed  her  lips ;  her  eyes  looked  as 
though  she  slumbered.  I  rushed  up  to 
her  and  caught  her  in  my  arms.  The 
next  moment  I  fell  senseless. 

When  I  revived  I  was  lying  in  one  of 
the  sick-sheds,  with  a  crowd  of  sufferers 
around  me.  I  had  only  one  thought,  and 
that  was  Edith.  I  rose  at  once,  weak 
and  trembling,  but  the  resolve  of  my  soul 
gave  strength  to  my  body.  An  awful 
fear  had  taken  possession  of  me,  which 
was  accompanied  by  a  certain  wild  hope. 
I  hurried,  with  staggering  feet,  to  the 
dead-house. 

All  the  bodies  were  gone.  New  ones 
had  con^e  in. 


"  Where  is  she  ?  "  I  cried  to  the  old 
woman  who  had  charge  there.  She 
knew  to  whom  I  reft^rred. 

•'  Buried,"  said  she. 

I  burst  out  into  a  torrent  of  impreca- 
tions. "Where  havi  they  buried  her? 
Take  me  to  the  place ! "  I  cried,  as  I 
flung  a  piece  of  gold  to  the  woman.  She 
grasped  it  eagerly.  "  Bring  a  spade,  and 
come  quick,  for  God's  sake !  She  is  not 
dead!" 

How  did  I  have  such  a  mad  fancy  ?  I 
will  tell  you.  This  ship  fever  often  ter- 
minates in  a  sort  of  stupor,  in  which 
death  generally  takes  place.  Sometimes, 
however,  the  patient  who  has  fallen  into 
this  stupor  revives  again.  It  is  known 
to  the  physicians  as  the  "  trance  state." 
I  had  seen  cases  of  this  at  sea.  Several 
times  people  were  thrown  overboard 
when  I  thought  that  they  did  not  have 
all  the  signs  of  death,  and  at  last,  in 
two  cases  of  which  I  had  charge,  I  de- 
tained the  corpses  three  days,  in  spite 
of  the  other  passengers.  These  two  re- 
vived. By  this  I  knew  that  some  of 
those  who  were  thrown  overboard  were 
not  dead.  Did  I  feel  horror  at  this,  my 
Teresa?  No.  "Pass  away,"  I  said, 
"  unhappy  ones.  You  are  not  dead. 
You  live  in  a  better  life  than  this.  What 
matters  it  whether  you  died  by  the  fever 
or  by  the  sea  ?  " 

But  when  I  saw  Edith  as  she  lay  there 
my  soul  felt  assured  that  she  was  not 
dead,  and  an  unutterable  convulsion  of 
sorrow  overwhelmed  me.  Therefore  I 
fainted.  The  horror  of  that  situation 
was  too  much  for  me.  To  think  of  that 
angelic  girl  about  to  be  covered  up  alive 
in  the  ground ;  to  think  of  that  sweet 
young  life,  which  had  begun  so  brightly, 
terminating  amid  such  black  darkness ! 

"  Now  God  help  me ! "  I  cried,  as  I 
hurried  on  after  the  woman  ;  "  and  bring 


I 


'   ■    Jl 

r->:»» 


96 


CORD   AND  CREESB 


i    ! 


me  there  in  time."  There!  V'»>ere? 
To  the  place  of  the  dead.  It  wa.  there 
I  had  to  seek  her. 

"  How  long  had  she  been  in  that  house 
before  I  fainted  ?  "  I  asked  fearfully. 

"  Twenty-four  hours." 

"And  when  did  I  faint  1" 

"  Yesterday." 

A  pang  shot  through  me.  "  Tell  me," 
I  cried  hoarsely,  "  when  she  was  buried." 

•'  Last  night." 

"  O  God  ! "  I  groaned,  and  I  could  say 
no  more ;  but  with  new  strength  given 
me  in  that  hour  of  agony  I  rushed  on. 

It  was  by  the  eastern  shore  of  the 
island.  A  wide  flat  was  there,  washed 
on  one  side  by  the  river.  Here  more 
than  a  thousand  mounds  arose.  Alas! 
could  I  ever  hope  to  find  her ! 

"Do  you  know  where  they  have  laid 
her  ?  "    I  asked  tremblingly. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  woman  confidently. 

Hope  returned  faintly.  She  led  the 
way. 

The  moon  beamed  out  brightly  from 
behind  a  cloud,  illumining  the  waste  of 
mounds.  The  river  murmured  solemnly 
along  the  shore.  All  my  senses  were 
overwhelmed  in  the  madness  of  that 
hour.  The  moon  seemed  enlarged  to  the 
dimensions  of  a  sky  ;  the  murmur  of  the 
river  sounded  like  a  cataract,  and  in  the 
vast  murmur  I  heard  voices  which  seemed 
then  like  the  voices  of  the  dead.  But 
the  lustre  of  that  exaggerated  glow,  and 
the  booming  concord  of  fancied  spirit 
voices,  were  all  contemned  as  trifles.  I 
cared  for  nothing  either  natural  or  super- 
natural. Only  one  thought  was  present 
— the  place  where  she  was  laid. 

We  reached  it  at  last.  At  the  end  of 
a  row  of  graves  we  stopped.  "  Here," 
said  the  woman,  *'  are  twelve  graves. 
These  were  made  last  night.  These  are 
those  twelve  which  you  saw." 


"  And  where— v/here,  O  God,  is  she?" 

"  There,"  replied  the  woman,  pointing 
to  one  which  was  the  third  from  the  end. 

"  Do  not  deceive  me ! "  I  cried  implor- 
ingly.  •'  Are  you  sure  ?  For  I  will  tear 
up  all  these  till  I  find  her." 

"  I  am  sure,  for  I  was  the  one  who 
buried  her.    I  and  a  man " 

I  seized  the  spade  and  turned  up  the 
soil.  I  labored  incessantly  for  what 
seemed  an  endless  period.  I  had  thrown 
out  much  earth,  but  had  not  yet  reached 
her.  I  felt  my  fitful  strength  failing  me, 
My  mind,  too,  seemed  entering  into  a 
state  of  delirium.  At  last  my  knees  gave 
way,  and  I  sank  down  just  as  my  spade 
touched  something  which  gave  back  a 
hollow  sound. 

My  knees  gave  way,  and  I  sank  down. 
But  I  would  not  give  up.  I  tore  up 
handfuls  of  earth  and  threw  them  into 
the  air. 

I  cred,    "  I  am  here ! 
I  aiTi  coming !  " 

"  Come,  sir,"  said  the  woman  sud- 
denly, in  her  strong  voice,  yet  pityingly. 
"  You  can  do  nothmg.  I  will  dig  her 
out  in  a  minute." 

"God  forever  bless  you!"  I  cried, 
leaping  out  and  giving  place  to  her. 
I  watched  her  as  she  threw  out  the 
earth.  Hungrily  I  gazed,  devouring  the 
dark  aperture  with  my  eyes  till  at  last 
the  rough  boards  appeared. 

Then  I  leaped  down.  I  put  my  fingers 
at  the  edge  and  tore  at  it  till  it  gave  way. 
The  lid  was  only  fastened  with  a  few 
nails.  My  bleeding  fingers  clutched  it. 
It  yielded  to  my  frantic  exertions. 

Oh,  my  God !  was  there  ever  a  sight 
on  earth  like  that  which  now  met  my 
eyes  as  I  raised  the  lid  and  looked  below  ? 
The  moon,  which  was  high  in  the  sky, 
streamed  down  directly  into  the  narrow 
cell.     It  showed  me  the  one  whom  I 


"O  Edith!" 
I  am  coming ! 


JOURNAL  OF  PAOLO  LANGHETTI 


97 


sought.  Its  bright  beams  threw  a  lustre 
ruuiul  that  face  which  was  upturned  t 
wart!  me.  Ah.  me!  how  white  was  that 
face;  like  tl.c  face  of  some  sleeping 
maiden  carved  in  alabaster.  Bathed  in 
the  moonbeams  it  lay  before  me,  all 
softened  and  refined  and  made  pure ; 
a  face  of  unearthly  beauty.  The  dark 
hair  caught  the  moon's  rays,  and 
encircled  the  head  like  a  crown  of  im- 
moi'tality.  Still  the  eyes  were  closed  as 
though  in  slumber:  still  the  lips  were 
fixed  ir'o  a  smile.  She  lay  as  one  who 
had  fallen  into  a  deep,  sweet  sleep— as 
one  who  in  that  sleep  has  dreams,  in 
which  are  visions  of  more  than  earthly 
beauty,  and  scenes  of  more  than  mortal 
happiness. 

Now  it  was  with  me  as  though  at  that 
unequalled  vision  I  had  drawn  into  my 
inmost  being  some  sudden  stimulus— a 
certain  rapture  of  newborn  strength ; 
strength  np  longer  fitful  and  spasmodic, 
but  firm,  well  fortified,  and  well  sustained. 

I  took  her  in  my  arms  and  brought 
her  forth  from  the  grave  into  the  life  of 
earth. 

Ah,  me!  how  light  a  thing  was  that 
frail  and  slender  figure  which  had  been 
worn  down  by  the  unparalleled  suffering 
through  which  she  had  passed.  This 
thought  transfixed  me  with  a  pang  of 
anguish — even  awed  the  rapture  that  I 
felt  at  clasping  her  in  my  arms. 

But  now  that  I  had  her,  where  was  I 
to  seek  for  a  place  of  shelter  ?  I  turned 
to  the  woman  and  asked  :  "  Is  there  any 
secluded  place  where  she  may  sleep  un- 
disturbed till  she  wakes  ?  " 

"  No  :  there  is  none  but  what  is  crowded 
with  the  sick  and  dying  in  all  this  island." 

"  I  must  have  some  place." 

"Theie  is  only  one  spot  that  is  quiet." 

"  What  one  ?  " 

"The  dead-house." 


I  shuddered.  "  No,  not  there.  See," 
said  I,  and  I  handed  her  a  piece  of  gold. 
"  Find  me  some  place  and  you  shall  have 
still  more." 

"  Well,"  she  said  hesitatingly,  "  I  have 
the  room  where  me  and  my  man  live.  I 
suppose  we  could  give  up  that." 

"  Take  me  there,  then  ?  " 

"  Shall  I  help  you  carry  her  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  answered,  drawing  back  my 
pure  Edith  from  her  outstretched  hands. 
"  No,  I  will  carry  her." 

The  woman  went  on  without  a  word. 
She  led  the  way  back  to  the  low  and  dis- 
mal sheds  which  lay  there  like  a  vast 
charnel-house,  and  thence  to  a  low  hut 
some  distance  away  from  all,  where  she 
opened  a  door.  She  spoke  a  few  words 
to  a  man,  who  finally  withdrew.  A  light 
was  burning.  A  rude  cot  was  there. 
Here  I  laid  the  one  whom  I  carried. 

"  Come  here,"  said  I,  "  three  times  a 
day.    I  will  pay  you  well  for  this." 

The  woman  left.  All  night  long  I 
watched.  She  lay  unmoved  and  un- 
changed. Where  was  her  spirt  wander- 
ing ?  Soared  i.  among  the  splendors  of 
some  far-off  world  ?  Lingered  it  amid 
the  sunshine  of  heavenly  glory  ?  Did 
her  seraphic  soul  move  amid  her  peers 
in  the  assemblage  of  the  holy  ?  Was  she 
straying  amid  the  trackless  paths  of 
ether  with  those  whom  she  had  loved  in 
life,  and  who  had  gone  before  ? 

All  night  long  I  watched  her  as  si.e  lay 
with  her  marble  face  ?nd  her  changeless 
smile.  There  seemeci  to  be  communi- 
cated to  me  an  influence  from  her  which 
opened  the  eyes  of  my  spiritual  sense ; 
and  my  spirit  sought  to  force  itself  upon 
her  far-off  perceptions,  that  so  it  might 
catch  her  notice  and  bring  her  back  to 
earth. 

The  morning  dawned.  There  was  no 
change.     Midday  came,  and  still  there 


^i^--» 


€XZ 
LJIJ 
^^^m 

'■   ■■'•'■  H«I»J 

*'.  -unmrn-  . 

"Ji 


was  no  change.  I  know  not  how  It  was, 
but  the  super intenilent  had  heard  about 
the  grave  being  opened,  and  found  nic  in 
the  hut.  He  tried  to  induce  me  to  give 
back  to  the  grave  the  one  whom  I  had 
rescued.  The  horror  of  that  request  was 
so  tremendous  that  it  forced  me  into 
passionate  calm.  When  I  refused  he 
threatened.  At  his  menace  I  rejoined  in 
such  language  that  he  turned  pale. 

"  Murderer  !  "  said  I  sternly,  "  is  it  not 
enough  that  you  have  sent  to  the  grave 
many  wretches  who  were  not  dead  ?  Do 
you  seek  to  send  back  to  death  this 
single  one  whom  I  have  rescued?  Do 
you  want  all  Canada  and  all  the  world  to 
ring  with  the  account  of  the  horrors  done 
here,  where  people  are  burled  alive? 
See,  she  is  not  dead.  She  is  only  sleep- 
ing. And  yet  you  put  her  in  the  grave." 
"She  Is  dead! "he  cried,  in  mingled 
fear  and  anger—"  and  she  must  be 
buried." 

"  She  is  not  dead,"  said  I  sternly,  as  I 
glared  on  him  out  of  my  intensity  of 
anguish — "  she  is  not  dead ;  and  if  you 
try  to  send  her  to  death  again  you  must 
first  send  me.  She  shall  not  pass  to  the 
grave  except  over  my  corpse,  and  over 
the  corpse  of  the  first  murderer  that  dares 
to  lay  hands  on  her." 

He  started  back — he  and  those  who 
were  with  him.  "  The  man  is  mad," 
they  said. 

They  left  me  in  peace.  I  grow  ex- 
cited as  I  write.  My  hand  trembles. 
Let  me  be  calm. 

She  awoke  that  night.  It  was  mid- 
night, and  all  was  still.  She  opened  her 
eyes  suddenly,  and  locked  full  at  me  with 
an  earnest  and  steadfast  stare.  At  last  a 
long,  deep-drawn  sigh  broke  the  stillness 
of  that  lone  chamber. 

"  Back  again  " — she  murmured,  in  a 
scarce  audible  voice — "among  men,  and 


CORD   AND   CREESE 


to  earth.  Oh,  friends  of  the  Realm  of 
Light,  must  I  be  severed  from  your  lofty 
communion ! " 

As  she  spoke  thus  the  anguish  which 
I  had  felt  at  the  grave  was  renewed. 
"  You  have  brought  me  back,"  said  she 
mournfully. 

"  No,"  I  returned  sadly—"  not  I.  It 
was  not  God's  will  that  you  should  leave 
this  life.  He  did  not  send  death  to  yoii. 
You  were  sleeping,  and  I  brought  you  to 
this  place." 

"  I  know  all,"  she  murmured,  closing 
her  eyes.  "  I  heard  all  while  my  spirit 
was  away.  I  know  where  you  found 
me. 

"  I  am  weary,"  she  said,  after  a  silence. 
Her  eyes  closed  again.  But  this  time  tlie 
trance  was  broken.  She  slept  with  long, 
deep  breathing,  interrupted  by  frequent 
sighs.  I  watched  her  through  the  long 
night.  At  first  fever  came.  Then  it 
passed.  Her  sleep  became  calm,  and  she 
slumbered  like  a  weary  child. 

Early  in  the  morning  the  superintend- 
ent came,  followed  by  a  dozen  armed 
men.  He  entered  with  a  frown.  I  met 
him  with  my  hand  upraised  to  hush  him, 
and  led  him  gently  to  the  bedside. 

"  See,"  I  whispered — "  but  for  me  she 
would  have  been  buried  alive!" 

The  man  seemed  frozen  into  dumbness. 
He  stood  ghastly  white  with  liorror,  thick 
drops  started  from  his  forehead,  his  teeth 
chattered,  he  staggered  away.  He  looked 
at  me  with  a  haunted  face,  such  as  be- 
longs to  one  who  thinks  he  has  seen  a 
spirit. 

"  Spare  me,"  he  faltered ;  "  do  not  ruin 
me.  God  knows  I  have  tried  to  do  my 
best ! " 

I  waved  him  off.  "  Leave  me.  You 
have  nothing  to  fear."  He  turned  away 
with  his  white  face,  and  departed  in 
silence  with  his  men. 


JOURNAL  OF  PAOLO  LANGHETTl 


99 


After  a  long  sleep  Edith  vvnkcd  ngain. 
She  said  nothing.  I  did  not  wish  her  to 
speak.  She  lay  awake,  yet  with  closed 
eyes,  thinking  such  thoughts  as  belong  to 
one,  and  to  one  alone,  who  had  known 
what  she  h.id  known. 

I  did  not  speak  to  her,  for  she  was  to 
me  a  holy  being,  not  to  be  addressed 
lightly.  Yet  she  did  not  refuse  nourish- 
ment, and  grew  stronger,  until  at  last  I 
was  able  to  have  her  moved  to  Quebec. 
There  I  obtained  proper  accommodations 
for  her  and  good  nurses. 

I  have  told  you  what  she  was  before 
this.  Subsequently  there  came  a  change. 
The  nurses  and  the  doctors  called  it  a 
stupor. 

There  was  something  in  her  face  which 
inspired  awe  among  all  who  saw  her.  If 
it  is  the  soul  of  man  that  gives  expression 
to  the  features,  then  her  soul  must  have 
been  familiar  with  things  unknown  to  us. 
How  often  have  I  seen  her  in  walking 
across  the  room  stop  suddenly  and  stand 
fixed  on  the  spot,  musing  and  sad  !  She 
commonly  moved  about  as  though  she 
saw  nothing,  as  though  she  walked  in  a 
dream,  with  eyes  half  closed,  and  some- 
times murmuring  inaudible  words.  The 
nurses  half  loved  and  half  feared  her. 
Yet  there  were  some  little  children  in  the 
house  who  felt  all  love  and  no  fear,  for  I 
have  seen  her  smiling  on  them  with  a 
smile  so  sweet  that  it  seemed  to  me  as 
if  they  stood  in  the  presence  of  their 
guardian  angel.  Strange,  sad  spirit,  what 
thoughts,  what  memories  are  these  which 
make  her  life  one  long  revery,  and  have 
taken  from  her  all  power  to  enjoy  the 
beautiful  that  dwells  on  earth  I 

She  fills  all  my  thoughts  with  her 
loneliness,  her  tears,  and  her  spiritual 
face,  bearing  the  marks  of  scenes  that 
can  never  be  forgotten.  She  lives  and 
moves  amid  her  recollections.     What  is 


it  that  so  overwhelms  <nll  her  thoughti  ? 
That  face  of  hers  appears  as  though  it 
had  bathed*  itself  in  the  atmosphere  of 
some  diviner  world  than  this ;  and  her 
eyes  seem  as  if  they  may  have  gazed  upon 
the  Infinite  Mystery. 

Now  from  the  few  woru3  which  she  has 
casually  dropped  I  gather  this  to  be  her 
own  belief.  That  when  she  fell  into  the 
state  of  trance  her  soul  was  parted  from 
her  body,  though  still  by  an  inexplicable 
sympathy  she  was  aware  of  what  was 
passing  around  her  lifeless  form.  Yet 
her  soul  had  gone  forth  into  that  spiritual 
world  toward  which  we  look  from  this 
earth  with  such  eager  wonder.  It  had 
mingled  there  with  the  souls  of  others. 
It  had  put  forth  new  powers,  and  learned 
the  use  of  new  faculties.  Then  that  soul 
was  called  back  to  its  body. 

This  maiden — this  wonder  among  mor- 
tals— is  not  a  mortal,  she  is  an  exiled  soul. 
I  have  seen  her  sit  with  tears  streaming 
down  her  face,  tears  such  as  men  shed  in 
exile.  For  she  is  like  a  banished  man 
who  has  only  one  feeling,  a  longing, 
yearning  homesickness.  She  has  been 
once  in  that  radiant  world  for  a  time 
which  we  call  three  days  in  our  human 
calculations,  but  which  to  her  seems  in- 
definite ;  for  as  she  once  said — and  it  is  a 
pregnant  thought,  full  of  meaning — there 
is  no  time  there,  all  is  infinite  duration. 
The  soul  has  illimitable  powers ;  in  an  in- 
stant it  can  live  years,  and  she  in  those 
three  days  had  the  life  of  ages.  Her 
former  life  on  earth  has  now  but  a  faint 
hold  upon  her  memory  in  comparison 
with  that  life  among  the  stars.  The  sor- 
row that  her  loved  ones  endured  has  be- 
come eclipsed  by  the  knowledge  of  the 
blessedness  in  which  she  found  them. 

Alas !  it  is  a  blessing  to  die,  and  it  is 
only  a  curse  to  rise  from  the  dead.  And 
now  she  endures  this  exile  with  an  aching 


He., 

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CORD   AND  CREESE 


heart,  with  memories  thai  irrepressi- 
ble, with  longings  unutterau:»-,ancl  yearn- 
ings that  cannot  be  expressed  for  that 
starry  world  and  that  bright  companion- 
ship from  which  she  has  been  rec;  lied. 
So  she  sometimes  speaks.  And  little  else 
can  she  say  amid  her  tears.  Oh,  sub- 
lime and  mysterious  exile,  could  I  but 
know  what  you  know,  and  have  but  a 
small  part  of  that  secret  which  you  can- 
not explain ! 

For  she  cannot  tell  what  she  witnessed 
there.  She  sometimes  wishes  to  do  so, 
but  cannot.  When  asked  directly,  she 
sinks  into  herself  and  is  lost  in  thought. 
She  finds  no  wo.ds.  It  is  as  when  we  try 
to  explain  to  a  man  who  has  been  always 
blind  the  scenes  before  our  eyes.  We 
cannot  explain  them  to  such  a  man.  And 
so  with  her.  She  finds  in  her  memory 
things  which  no  human  language  has 
been  made  to  express.  These  languages 
were  made  for  the  earth,  not  for  heaven* 
In  order  to  tell  me  what  she  knows,  she 
would  need  the  language  of  that  world, 
and  then  she  could  not  explain  it,  for  I 
could  not  understand  it. 

Only  once  I  saw  her  smile,  and  that 
was  when  one  or  the  nurses  casually 
mentioned,  with  horror,  the  death  of 
some  acquaintance.  "  Death  ! "  she  mur- 
mured, and  her  eyes  lighted  up  with  a 
kind  of  ecstasy.  "  Oh,  that  I  might 
die  !  "  She  knows  no  blessing  on  earth 
•:.<  jept  that  which  we  consider  a  curse, 
and  to  her  the  object  of  all  her  wishes  is 
this  onr  thing — Death.  I  shall  not  soon 
forge",  that  smile.  It  seemed  of  itself  to 
give  a  new  meaning  to  death. 

Do  I  believe  this,  so  wild  a  theory, 
the  very  mention  of  which  has  carried  me 
beyond  myself?  I  do  not  know.  All 
my  reason  rebels.  It  scouts  the  mon- 
strous idea.  But  here  she  stands  before 
me,  with  her  memories  and  thoughts,  and 


her  wonderful  words,  few,  but  full  of 
deepest  meaning — words  which  I  shall 
never  forget — and  I  recognize  something 
before  which  Reason  falters.  Whence 
this  deep  longing  of  hers  ?  Why,  when 
she  thinks  of  death,  does  her  face  grow 
thus  radiant,  and  her  eyes  kindle  with 
hope  }  Why  does  she  so  pine  and  grow 
sick  with  desire?  Why  does  her  heart 
thus  ache  as  day  succeeds  to  day,  and 
she  finds  herself  still  under  the  sunlight, 
with  the  landscapes  and  the  music  of  this 
fair  earth  still  around  her  ? 

Once,  in  some  speculations  of  mine, 
which  I  think  I  mentioned  to  you,  Teresina, 
I  thought  that  if  a  man  could  reach  that 
spiritual  world  he  would  look  with  con- 
tempt upon  the  highest  charms  that 
belong  to  this.  Here  is  one  who  believes 
that  she  has  gone  through  this  experience, 
and  all  this  earth,  with  all  its  beauty,  is 
now  an  object  of  indifference  to  her. 
Perhaps  you  may  ask.  Is  she  sane  ?  Yes, 
dear,  as  sane  as  I  am,  but  with  a  pro- 
found d  experience  and  a  diviner  knowl- 
edge. 

After  I  had  been  in  Quebec  about  a 
month  I  learned  that  one  of  the  regiments 
stationed  here  was  commanded  by  Colonel 
Henry  Despard.  I  called  on  him,  and  he 
received  me  with  unbounded  delight.  He 
made  me  tell  him  all  about  myself,  and  I 
imparted  to  him  as  much  of  the  events 
of  the  voyage  and  quarantine  as  was 
advisable.  I  did  not  go  into  particulars 
to  any  extent,  of  course.  I  mentioned 
nothing  about  the  grave.  That,  dearest 
sister,  is  a  secret  between  you,  and  me, 
and  her.  For  if  it  should  be  possible 
that  she  should  ever  be  restored  to 
ordinary  human  sympathy  and  feeling,  it 
will  not  be  well  that  all  the  world  should 
know  what  has  happened  to  her. 

His  regiment  was  ordered  to  Halifax, 
and  I  concluded  to  comply  with  his  urgent 


HUSBAND    AND    WIFE 


lOI 


,7 


solicitations  and  accompany  him.  It  is 
better  for  her  at  any  rate  that  there 
should  be  more  friends  than  one  to  pro- 
tect her.  Despard,  like  the  doctors,  sup- 
poses that  she  is  in  a  stupor. 

The  journey  here  exercised  a  favorable 
influence  over  her.  Her  strength  in- 
creased to  a  marked  degree,  and  she  has 
once  or  twice  spoken  about  the  past. 
She  told  me  that  her  father  wrote  to  his 
son  Louis  in  Australia  some  weeks  before 
his  death,  and  urged  him  to  come  home. 
She  thinks  that  he  is  on  his  way  to  Eng- 
land. The  colonel  and  I  at  once  thought 
that  he  ought  to  be  sought  after  without 
delay,  and  he  promised  to  write  to  his 
nephew,  your  old  playmate,  who,  he  tells 
me,  is  to  be  a  neighbor  of  yours. 

If  he  is  still  the  one  whom  I  remem- 


ber— intellectual  yet  spiritual,  with  sound 
reason  yet  a  strong  heart,  if  he  is  still 
the  Courtenay  Despard  who,  when  a  boy, 
seemed  to  me  to  look  out  upon  the  world 
before  him  with  such  lofty  poetic  enthu- 
siasm—then, Teresella,  you  should  show 
him  this  diary,  for  it  will  cause  him  to 
understand  things  which  he  ought  to 
know.  I  suppose  it  would  be  unintel- 
ligible to  Mr.  Thornton,  who  is  a  most 
estimable  man,  but  who,  from  the  nature 
of  his  mind,  if  he  read  this,  would  only 
conclude  that  the  writer  was  insane. 

At  any  rate,  Mr.  Thornton  should  be 
informed  of  the  leading  facts,  so  that  he 
may  see  if  something  can  be  done  to 
alleviate  the  distress,  or  to  avenge  the 
wrongs  of  one  whose  father  was  the 
earliest  benefactor  of  his  family. 


I 


CHAPTER  XVI 


HUSBAND  AND  WIFE 


"  It  is  now  the  middle  of  February," 
said  Despard,  after  a  long  pause,  in 
which  he  had  given  himself  up  to  the 
strange  reflections  which  the  diary  was 
calculated  to  excite.  "  If  Louis  Brandon 
left  Australia  when  he  was  called  he 
must  be  in  England  now." 

"You  are  calm,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton. 
"Have  you  nothing  more  to  say  than 
that  ?  " 

Despard  looked  at  her  earnestly.  "  Do 
you  ask  me  such  a  question  ?  It  is  a 
story  so  full  of  anguish  that  the  heart 
might  break  out  of  pure  sympathy,  but 
what  words  could  be  found  ?  I  have 
nothing  to  say.  I  am  speechless.  My 
God !  what  horror  thou  dost  permit ! " 


"But  somet4iing  must  be  done,"  said 
Mrs.  Thornton  impetuously. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Despard  slowly, 
"  but  what  ?  If  we  could  reach  our 
hands  over  the  grave  and  bring  back 
those  who  have  passed  away,  then  the 
soul  of  Edith  might  find  peace;  but 
now — now — we  can  give  her  no  peace. 
She  only  wishes  to  die.  Yet  something 
must  be  done,  and  the  first  thing  is  to 
find  Louis  Brandon.  I  will  start  ''^r 
London  to-night.  I  will  go  and  seek 
him ;  not  for  Edith's  sake,  but  for  his 
own,  that  I  may  save  one  at  least  of  this 
family.  For  her  there  is  no  comfort. 
Our  efforts  are  useless  there.  If  we 
could    give   her    the    greatest    earthly 


\ ->   . 

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CORD    AND   CREESE 


happiness  it  would  be  poor  and  mean, 
and  still  she  would  sigh  after  that  starry 
companionship  from  which  her  soul  has 
been  withdrawn." 

"  Then  you  believe  it." 

"  Don't  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course ;  but  I  did  not  know  that 
you  would." 

"  Why  not  ?  and  if  I  did  not  believe  it 
this  at  least  would  be  plain,  that  she  her- 
self believes  it.  And  even  if  it  be  a 
hallucination,  it  is  a  sublime  one,  and  so 
vivid  that  it  is  the  same  to  her  as  a 
reality.  Let  it  be  only  a  dream  that  has 
taken  place— still  that  dream  has  made 
all  other  things  dim,  indistinct,  and 
indifferent  to  her. 

"  No  one  but  you  would  read  Paolo's 
diary  without  thinking  him  insane." 

Despard  smiled.  "Even  that  would 
be  nothing  to  me.  Some  people  think 
that  a  great  genius  must  be  insane. 

"  Great  wits  are  sure  to  madness  near  allied, 

you  know.  For  my  part,  I  consider 
Paolo  the  sublimest  of  men.  When  I 
saw  him  last  I  was  only  a  boy,  and  he 
came  with  his  seraphic  face  and  his 
divine  music  to  give  me  an  inspiration 
which  has  biassed  my  life  ever  since.  I 
have  only  known  one  spirit  like  his 
among  those  whom  I  have  met." 

An  indescribable  sadness  passed  over 
his  face.  "  But  now,"  he  continued  sud- 
denly, "  I  suppose  Thornton  must  see  my 
uncle's  letter.  His  legal  mind  may  dis- 
cern some  things  which  the  law  may  do 
in  this  case.  Edith  is  beyond  all  conso- 
lation from  human  beings,  and  still  far- 
ther beyond  all  help  from  English  law. 
But  if  Louis  Brandon  can  be  found  the 
law  may  exert  itself  in  his  favor.  In  this 
respect  he  may  be  useful,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  he  would  take  up  the  case  ear- 
nestly, out  of  his  strong  sense  of  justice." 


When  Thornton  came  in  to  dinner 
Despard  handed  him  his  uncle's  letter. 
The  lawyer  read  it  with  deep  attention, 
and  without  a  word. 

Mis.  Thornton  looked  agitated — some- 
times resting  her  head  on  her  hand,  at 
others  looking  fixedly  at  her  husband. 
As  soon  as  he  had  finished  she  said,  in  a 
calm,  measured  tone : 

"  I  did  not  know  before  that  Brandon 
of  Brandon  Hall  and  all  his  family  had 
perished  so  miserably." 

Thornton  started,  and  looked  at  her 
earnestly.  She  returned  his  gaze  with 
unutterable  sadness  in  her  eyes. 

"  He  saved  my  father's  life,"  said  she. 
"  He  benefited  him  greatly.  Your  father 
also  was  under  slight  obligations  to 
him.  I  thought  that  things  like  these 
constituted  a  faint  claim  on  one's  grati- 
tude, so  that  if  one  were  exposed  to 
misfortune  he  might  not  be  altogether 
destitute  of  friends." 

Thornton  looked  uneasy  as  his  wife 
spoke. 

"  My  dear,"  said  he,  "  you  do  not 
understand." 

"  True,"  she  answered ;  "  for  this 
thing  is  almost  incredible.  If  my  father's 
friend  has  died  in  misery,  unpitied  and 
unwept,  forsaken  by  all,  do  I  not  share 
the  guilt  of  ingratitude  ?  How  can  I 
absolve  myself  from  blame  ?  " 

"  Set  your  mind  at  rest.  You  never 
knew  anything  about  it.  I  told  you 
nothing  on  the  subject." 

"  Then  you  knew  it !  " 

*'  Stop  !  You  cannot  understand  this 
unless  I  explain  it.  You  are  stating  bald 
facts;  but  these  facts,  painful  as  they 
are,  are  very  much  modified  by  circum- 
stances." 

"  Well,  then,  I  hope  you  will  tell  me  all, 
without  reserve,  for  I  wish  to  know  how 
it  is  that  this  horror  has  happened,  and  I 


HUSBAND    AND    WIFE 


103 


■     I 


dinner 
i  letter, 
tention, 

— sonie- 
land,  at 
lusband, 
lid,  in  a 

Brandon 
nily  had 

d  at  her 
;aze  with 
s. 

said  she. 
ur  father 
itions  to 
ike  these 
le's  gvati- 
:posed  to 
altogether 

his  wife 

i  do  not 

for    this 

^y  father's 

jitied  and 

not  share 

ow  can  I 

Vou  never 
told    you 


il 


stand  tliis 
ating  baUl 
as  they 


)y  circum- 

tell  me  all, 
nUnow  how 
Ined,  and  I 


have  stood  idly  and  coldly  aloof.  My 
God  ! "  she  cried,  in  Italian  ;  "  did  /le 
not — did  f/iey  not  in  their  last  moments 
think  of  me,  and  wonder  how  they  could 
have  been  betrayed  by  Langhetti's  daugh- 
ter!" 

"  My  dear,  be  calm,  I  pray.    You  are 
blaming  yourself  unjustly,  I  assure  you." 
Despard  was  ghastly  pale  as  this  con- 
versation went  on.     He  turned  his  face 
away. 

"Ralph  Brandon,"  began  Thornton, 
"  was  a  man  of  many  high  qualities,  but 
of  unbounded  pride,  and  utterly  impractic- 
able. He  was  no  judge  of  character,  and 
therefore  was  easily  deceived.  He  was 
utterly  inexperienced  in  business,  and  he 
was  always  liable  to  be  led  astray  by  ?ny 
sudden  impulse.  Somehow  or  other  a 
man  named  Potts  excited  his  interest 
about  twelve  or  fifteen  years  ago.  He 
was  a  mere  vulgar  adventurer ;  but  Bran- 
don became  infatuated  with  him,  and  ac- 
tually believed  that  this  man  was  worthy 
to  be  intrusted  with  the  management  of 
large  business  transactions.  The  thing 
went  on  for  years.  His  friends  all  remon- 
strated with  him.  I,  in  particular,  went 
there  to  explain  to  him  that  the  specula- 
tion in  which  he  was  engaged  could  not 
result  in  anything  except  loss.  But  he 
resented  all  interference,  and  I  had  to 
leave  him  to  himself. 

"  His  son  Louis  was  a  boy  full  of 
energy  and  fire.  The  family  were  all  in- 
dignant at  the  confidence  which  Ralph 
put  in  this  Potts — Louis  most  of  all. 
One  day  he  met  Potts.  Words  passed 
between  them,  and  Louis  struck  the 
scoundrel.  Potts  complained.  Brandon 
had  his  son  up  on  the  spot ;  and  after 
listening  to  his  explanations  gave  him  the 
alternative  either  to  apologize  to  Potts  or 
to  leave  the  house  forever.  Louis  indig- 
nantly  denounced    Potts  to  his  father 


as  a  swindler.  Brandon  ordered  him 
to  his  room,  and  gave  him  a  week  to 
decide. 

"  The  servants  whispered  till  the  mat- 
ter was  noised  abroad.  The  county 
gentry  had  a  meeting  about  it,  and  felt 
so  strongly  that  they  did  an  unparalleled 
thing.  They  actually  waited  on  him  to 
assure  him  that  Potts  was  unworthy  of 
trust,  and  to  urge  him  not  to  treat  his  son 
so  harshly.  All  Brandon's  pride  was 
roused  at  this.  He  said  words  to  the 
deputation  which  cut  him  off  forever 
from  their  sympathy,  and  they  left  in  a 
rage.  Mrs.  Brandon  wrote  to  me,  and  I 
went  there.  I  found  Brandon  inflexible. 
I  urged  him  to  give  his  son  a  longer 
time,  to  send  him  to  the  army  for  a  while, 
to  do  anything  rather  than  eject  him. 
He  refused  to  change  his  sentence.  Then 
I  pointed  out  the  character  of  Potts,  and 
told  him  many  things  that  I  had  heard. 
At  this  he  hinted  that  I  wished  to  have 
the  management  of  his  business,  and  was 
actuated  by  mercenary  motives.  Of 
course,  after  this  insult,  nothing  more 
was  to  be  said.  I  went  home  and  tried 
to  forget  all  about  the  Brandons.  At  the 
end  of  the  week  Louis  refused  to  apolo- 
gize, and  left  his  father  forever." 

"  Did  you  see  Louis  ?  " 

"  I  saw  him  before  that  insult  to  ask  if 
he  would  apologize." 

"  Did  you  try  to  make  him  apologize  ?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Thornton  coldly. 

"  Yes.  But  he  looked  at  me  with  such 
an  air  that  I  had  to  apologize  myself  for 
hinting  at  such  a  thing.  He  was  as  in- 
flexible as  his  father." 

"  How  else  could  he  have  been  ?  " 

"  Well,  each  might  have  yielded  a  little. 
It  does  not  do  to  be  so  inflexible  if  one 
would  succeed  in  life." 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton.  "  Success 
must  be  gained  by  flexibility.    The  mar- 


i      i     ;i 


CO 

f, '"^'fc 

r  •■-"••'■ 

I — '- 

^:?^ 

'  *■»>... 
„„.-»—<» 

"""*'"■>«•,•• 

•■I '■"■'►» «.«!» 


104 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


tyrs  were  all  inflexible,  and  they  were  all 
unsuccessful." 

Thornton  looked  at  his  wife  hastily. 
Despard's  hand  trembled,  and  his  face 
grew  paler  still  with  a  more  livid  pallor. 

"  Did  you  try  to  do  anything  for  the 
ruined  son  ?  " 

"  How  could  I,  after  that  insult  ?  " 

"  Could  you  not  have  got  him  a 
government  office,  or  purchased  a  com- 
mission for  him  in  the  army  ?  " 

•'  He  would  not  have  taken  it  from 
me." 

'•  You  could  have  co-operated  with  his 
mother,  and  done  it  in  her  name." 

•'  I  could  not  enter  the  house  after  be- 
ing insulted." 

•'  You  could  have  written.  From  what 
I  have  heard  of  Brandon,  he  was  just  the 
man  who  would  have  blessed  anyone 
who  would  interpose  to  save  his  son." 

•'  His  son  did  not  wish  to  be  saved. 
He  has  all  his  father's  inflexibility,  but 
an  intellf'ct  as  clear  as  that  of  the  most 
practical  man.  He  has  a  will  of  iron, 
dauntless  resolution,  and  an  implacable 
temper.  At  the  same  time  he  has  the 
open  generosity  and  the  tender  heart  of 
his  father." 

"  Had  his  father  a  tender  heart  ?  " 

"  So  tender  and  affectionate  that  this 
sacrifice  of  his  son  must  have  over- 
whelmed him  with  the  deepest  sorrow." 

"  Did  you  ever  after  make  any  ad- 
vances to  any  of  them  ?  " 

"No,  never.  I  never  went  near  the 
house." 

"  Did  you  ever  visit  any  of  the  county 
gentry  to  see  if  something  could  be 
done  ?  " 

"  No.  It  would  have  been  useless. 
Besides,  the  very  mention  of  his  name 
would  have  been  resented.  I  should 
have  had  to  fling  myself  headlong 
against     the    feelings    of     the    whole 


public.  And  no  man  has  any  right 
to  do  that," 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton.  "No 
man  has.  That  was  another  mistake 
that  the  martyrs  made.  They  would 
tling  themselves  against  public  opinion." 

"  All  men  cannot  be  martyrs.  Be- 
sides, the  cases  are  not  analogous." 

Thornton  spoke  calmly  and  dis- 
passionately. 

"True.  It  is  absurd  in  me;  but  I 
admire  one  who  has  for  a  moment  for- 
gotten his  own  interests  or  safety  in 
thinking  of  others." 

"  That  does  very  well  for  poetry,  but 
not  in  real  life." 

"  In  real  life,  such  as  that  on  board 
the  Tecumseh  ? "  murmured  Mrs. 
Thornton,    with    drooping    eyelids. 

"You  are  getting  excited,  my  dear," 
said  Thornton  patiently,  with  the  air  of 
a  wise  father  who  overlooks  the  petulance 
of  his  child.  "  I  will  go  on.  I  had  busi- 
ness on  the  Continent  when  poor  Bran- 
don's ruin  occurred.  You  were  with 
me,  my  dear,  at  Berlin  when  I  heard 
about  it.  I  felt  shocked,  but  not  sur- 
prised. I  feared  that  it  would  come  to 
that." 

"You  showed  no  emotion  in  par- 
ticular." 

"No.  I  was  careful  not  to  trouble 
you." 

"You  were  in  Berlin  three  months. 
Was  it  at  the  beginning  or  end  of  your 
stay?" 

"  At  the  beginning," 

"  And  you  stayed  ?  " 

"I  had  business  which  I  could  not 
leave." 

"  Would  you  have  been  ruined  if  you 
had  left  ?  " 

"  Well,  no— not  exactly  ruined,  but  it 
would  have  entailed  serious  conse* 
quences." 


HUSBAND   AND    WIFE 


lOS 


t       '  ! 


right 

"No 
aistake 
would 
linion." 
i.  Be- 
ous." 
d     dis- 

;  but  I 
ent  for- 
afety  m 

etry,  but 

m  board 
i      Mrs. 
:lids. 
ty  dear," 
he  air  of 
petulance 
had  busi- 
)or  Bran- 
ere  with 
I   heard 
not  sur- 
come  to 

in    par- 

|o  trouble 

months- 
of  your 


could  not 

led  if  you 

led,  but  it 
U    conse- 


"  Would  those  consequences  have  been 
as  serious  as  the  Tecumseh  tragedy  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  in  business  there  are  rules 
which  a  man  is  not  permitted  to  neglect. 
There  are  duties  and  obligations  which 
are  imperative.  The  code  of  honor  there 
is  as  delicate,  yet  as  rigid,  as  elsewhere." 
"And  yet  there  are  times  when  all 
obligations  of  this  sort  are  weakened. 
When  friends  die,  this  is  recognized. 
Why  should  it  not  be  so  when  they  are 
in  danger  of  a  fate  worse  than  death  ?  " 
Thornton  elevated  his  eyebrows,  and 
made  no  reply. 

"You  must  have  heard  about  it  in 
March,  then  }  " 

"  Yes,  at  the  end  of  January.  His  ruin 
took  place  in  December,  1845.  It  was 
the  middle  of  May  before  I  got  home.  I 
then,  toward  the  end  of  the  month,  sent 
my  clerk  to  Brandon  village  to  make 
enquiries.  He  brought  word  of  the  death 
of  Brandon,  and  the  departure  of  his 
family  to  parts  unknown." 
"  Did  he  rnake  no  particular  enquiries  ?" 
"  No." 

"  And  you  said  not  a  word  to  me !  " 
"  I  was  afraid  of  agitating  you,  my 
dear." 

"And  therefore  you  have  secured  for 
me  unending  self-reproach." 

"Why  so?  Surely  you  are  blaming 
yourself  without  a  shadow  of  a  cause." 

"  I  will  tell  you  why.  I  dare  say  I  feel 
unnecessarily  on  the  subject,  but  I  can- 
not help  it.  It  is  a  fact  that  Brandon 
was  always  impulsive  and  culpably  care- 
less about  himself.  It  is  to  this  quality, 
strangely  enough,  that  I  owe  my  father's 
life,  and  my  own  comfort  for  many  years. 
Paolo  also  owes  as  much  as  I.  Mr. 
Brandon,  with  a  friend  of  his,  was  sailing 
through  the  Mediterranean  in  his  own 
yacht,  making  occasional  tours  into  the 
couptry  at  eyejy  place  where  they  hap- 


pened to  land,  and  at  last  they  ame  to 
Girgenti,  with  the  intention  of  examining 
the  ruins  of  Agrigentum.  This  was  in 
181 8,  four  years  before  I  was  born.  My 
father  was  stopping  at  Girgenti,  with  his 
wife  and  Paolo,  who  was  then  six  years 
old.  My  father  had  been  very  active 
under  the  reign  of  Murat,  and  had  held 
a  high  post  in  his  government.  This 
made  him  suspected  after  Murat's  over- 
throw. 

"On  the  day  that  these  Englishmen 
visited  Girgenti,  a  woman  in  deep  dis- 
tress came  to  see  them,  along  with  a 
little  boy.  It  was  my  mother  and  Paolo. 
She  flung  herself  on  the  floor  at  their 
feet,  and  prayed  them  to  try  and  help  her 
husband,  who  had  been  arrested  on  a 
charge  of  treason  and  was  now  in  prison. 
He  was  suspected  of  belonging  to  the 
Carbonari,  who  were  just  beginning  to 
resume  their  secret  plots,  and  were  show- 
ing great  activity.  My  father  belonged 
to  the  innermost  degree,  and  had  been 
betrayed  by  a  villain  named  Cigole.  My 
mother  did  not  tell  them  all  this,  but 
merely   informed  them  of  his  danger. 

"  At  first  they  did  not  know  what  to  do, 
but  the  prayers  of  my  mother  moved 
their  hearts.  T  hey  went  to  see  the  cap- 
tain of  the  guard,  and  tried  to  bribe  him, 
but  without  efteot.  They  found  out, 
however,  where  my  father  was  confined, 
and  resolved  upon  a  desperate  plan. 
They  put  my  mother  and  Paolo  on  board 
of  the  yacht,  and  by  paying  a  heavy  bribe 
obtained  permission  to  visit  my  father  in 
prison.  Brandon's  friend  was  about  the 
same  height  as  my  father.  When  they 
reached  his  cell  they  urged  my  father 
to  exchange  clothes  with  him  and  escape. 
At  first  he  positively  refused,  but  when 
assured  that  Brandon's  friend,  being  an 
Englishman,  would  be  set  free  in  a  few 
days,  he  consented.    Brandon  then  took 


;>bM» 


■i;.-« 


:r.sui» 


|. 


io6 


CORD   AND   CREESE 


if 


him  away  unnoticed,  put  him  on  board 
of  the  yacht,  and  sailed  to  Marseilles, 
where  he  gave  him  money  enough  to  get 
to  England,  and  told  him  to  stop  at 
Brandon  Hall  till  he  himself  arrived. 
He  then  sailed  back  to  see  about  his 
friend. 

"  He  found  out  nothing  about  him  for 
some  time.  At  last  he  induced  the 
British  ambassador  to  take  the  matter  in 
hand,  and  he  did  so  with  such  effect  that 
the  prisoner  was  liberated.  He  had  been 
treated  with  some  severity  at  first,  but 
he  was  young  and  the  government  was 
persuaded  to  look  upon  it  as  a  youth- 
ful freak.  Brandon's  powerful  influence 
with  the  British  ambassador  obtained  his 
unconditional  release. 

"  My  father  afterward  obtained  a  situ- 
ation here  at  Holby,  where  he  was  organ- 
ist till  he  died.  Through  all  his  life  he 
never  ceased  to  receive  kindness  and 
delicate  acts  of  attention  from  Brandon. 
When  in  his  last  sickness  Brandon  came 
and  stayed  with  him  till  the  end.  He 
then  wished  to  do  something  for  Paolo, 
but  Paolo  preferred  seeking  his  own 
fortune  in  his  own  way." 

Mrs.  Thornton  ended  !\er  little  narra- 
tive, to  which  Despard  had  listened  with 
the  deepest  attention. 

•' Who  was  Brandon's  friend  ?"  asked 
Despard. 

"  He  was  a  British  officer,"  said  Mrs. 
Thornton.  "  For  fear  of  dragging  in  his 
government,  and  perhaps  incurring  dis- 
missal from  the  army,  he  gave  an  assumed 
name — Mountjoy.  This  was  the  reason 
why  Brandon  was  so  long  in  finding 
him." 

"  Did  your  father  not  know  it  ?  " 

"  On  the  passage  Brandon  kept  it 
secret,  and  after  his  friend's  deliverance 
he  came  to  see  my  father  under  his 
assunoed  nz^me,    My  father  always  spoke 


of  him  as  Mountjoy.  After  a  time  he 
heard  that  he  was  dead." 

"  I  can  tell  you  his  true  name,"  said 
Mr.  Thornton.  "There  is  no  reason 
why  you  should  not  know  it." 

"  What  ?  " 

"Lionel  Despard— your  father,  and 
Ralph  Brandon's  bosom  friend." 

Despard  looked  transfixed.  Mrs. 
Thornton  gazed  at  her  husband,  and 
gave  an  unutterable  look  at  Despard, 
then,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands, 
she  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears. 

"  My  God,"  cried  Despard,  passing  his 
hand  over  his  forehead,  "  my  father  died 
when  I  was  a  child,  and  nobody  was  ever 
able  to  tell  me  anything  about  him. 
And  Brandon  was  his  friend.  He  died 
thus,  and  his  family  have  perished  thus, 
while  I  have  known  nothing  and  done 
nothing." 

"  You  at  least  are  not  to  blame,"  said 
Thornton  calmly,  "  for  you  had  scarcely 
heard  of  Brandon's  name.  You  were  in 
the  north  of  England  when  this  happened, 
and  knew  nothing  whatever  about  it." 

That  evening  Despard  went  home  with 
a  deeper  trouble  in  his  heart.  He  was 
not  seen  at  the  Grange  for  a  month.  At 
the  end  of  that  time  he  returned.  He  had 
been  away  to  London  during  the  whole 
interval. 

As  Mrs.  Thornton  entered  to  greet  him 
her  face  was  overspread  with  an  expres- 
sion of  radiant  joy.  He  took  both  her 
hands  in  his  and  pressed  them  without  a 
word.  "  Welcome  back,"  she  murmured 
— "  you  have  been  gone  a  long  time." 

"  Nothing  but  an  overpowering  sense 
of  duty  could  have  kept  me  away  so 
long,"  said  he,  in  a  deep,  low  voice. 

A  few  similar  commonplaces  followed : 
but  with  these  two  the  tone  of  the  voice 
invested  the  feeblest  commonplaces  with 
some  hidden  meaning. 


HUSBAND    AND    WIFE 


107 


Y 


M 


At  last  she  asked  :  "  Tell  nie  what 
success  you  had  ?  "  He  made  no  reply  ; 
but  taking  a  paper  from  his  pocket 
opened  it,  and  pointed  to  a  marked  para- 
graph. This  was  the  month  of  March. 
The  paper  was  dated  January  14,  1847. 
The  paragraph  was  as  follows : 

"  Distressing  Casualty.— The  ship 
Java,  which  left  Sydney  on  the  5th  of 
August  last,  reports  a  stormy  passage. 
On  the  1 2th  of  September  a  distressing 
casualty  occurred.  They  were  in  S.  Lat. 
11°  1'  22",  E.  long.  105"  6'  36",  when  a 
squall  suddenly  struck  the  ship.  A  pas- 
senger, Louis  Brandon,  Esq.,  of  the  firm 
of  Compton  &  Brandon,  Sydney,  was 
standing  by  the  lee-quarter  as  the  squall 
struck,  and,  distressing  to  narrate,  he 
was  hurled  violently  overboard.  It  was 
impossible  to  do  anything,  as  a  monsoon 
was  beginning,  which  raged  for  twenty- 
four  hours.  Mr.  Brandon  was  coming 
to  England  on  business. 

"  The  captain  reports  a  sand-bank  in 
the  latitude  and  longitude  indicated 
above,  which  he  names  '  Coffin  Island,' 
from  a  rock  of  peculiar  shape  at  the 
eastern  extremity.  Ships  will  do  well  in 
future  to  give  this  place  a  wide  berth." 

Deep  despondency  came  over  Mrs. 
Thornton's  face  as  she  read  this.  "  We 
can  do  nothing,"  said  she  mournfully. 
"  He  is  gone.  It  is  better  for  him.  We 
must  now  wait  till  we  hear  more  from 
Paolo.  I  will  write  to  him  at  once." 
"  And  I  will  write  to  my  uncle." 
There  was  a  long  silence.  "  Do  you 
know,"  said  Despard  finally,  "  that  I 
have  been  thinking  much  about  my  father 
of  late.  It  seems  very  strange  to  me  that 
my  uncle  never  told  me  about  that  Sicilian 
affair  before.    Perhaps  he  did  not  wish 


me  to  know  it,  for  fear  that  through  all 
my  life  I  should  brood  over  thoughts  of 
that  noble  heart  lost  to  me  forever.  But 
I  intend  to  write  to  him,  and  obtain 
afresh  the  particulars  of  his  death."  I 
wish  to  know  more  about  my  mother. 
No  one  was  ever  in  such  ignorance  of  his 
parents  as  I  have  been.  They  merely 
told  me  that  my  father  and  mother  died 
suddenly  in  India,  and  left  me  an  orphan 
at  the  age  of  seven  under  the  care  of  Mr. 
Henry  Thornton.  They  never  told  me 
that  Brandon  was  a  very  dear  friend  of 
his.  I  have  thought  also  of  the  circum- 
stances of  his  death,  and  they  all  seemed 
confused.  Some  say  he  died  in  Calcutta, 
others  say  in  China,  and  Mr.  Thornton 
once  said  in  Manilla.  There  is  some 
mystery  about  it." 

"  When  Brandon  was  visiting  my 
father,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton,  "you  were 
at  school,  and  he  never  saw  you.  I  think 
he  thought  you  were  Henry  Despard's 
son." 

"  There's  some  mystery  about  it,"  said 
Despard  thoughtfully. 

When  Mr.  Thornton  came  in  that 
night  he  read  a  few  extracts  from  the 
London  paper  which  he  had  just  received. 
One  was  as  follows  : 

"Foundered  at  Sea.— The  ship 
H.  B.  Smith,  from  Calcutta,  which  arrived 
yesterday,  reports  that  on  the  28th 
January  they  picked  up  a  ship's  long- 
boat near  the  Cape  Verde  Islands.  It  was 
floating  bottom  upward.  On  the  stern 
was  painted  the  word  Falcon.  The  ship 
Falcon  has  now  been  expected  for  two 
months,  and  it  is  feared  from  this  that 
she  may  have  foundered  at  sea.  The 
Falcon  was  on  her  way  from  Sydney  to 
London,  and  belonged  to  Messrs,  Ring- 
wood,  Flaxman &  Co." 


;aci 


■^'t..... 


5...  X^.l 

'•'-'■  mmlKk 

■' ■     ''■■'•■""''tai 


■"•""•—'^ti 


CHAPTER  XVII 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  AFRICAN  FOREST 


Let  us  return  to  the  castaways. 

It  was  morning  on  the  coast  of  Africa — 
Africa  the  mysterious,  the  inhospitable 
Africa,  leomim  arida  ntitrix. 

There  was  a  little  harbor  into  which 
flowed  a  shallow,  sluggish  river,  while  on 
each  side  rose  high  hills.  In  front  of  the 
harbor  was  an  island  which  concealed 
and  protected  it. 

Here  the  palm-trees  grew.  The  sides 
rose  steeply,  the  summit  was  lofty,  and 
the  towering  palms  afforded  a  deep, 
dense  shade.  The  grass  was  line  anu 
short,  and  being  protected  from  the 
withering  heat  was  as  fine  as  that  of  an 
English  lawn.  Up  the  palm-trees  there 
climbed  a  thousand  parasitic  plants, 
covered  with  blossoms — gorgeous,  golden, 
rich  beyond  all  description.  Birds  of 
starry  plumage  flitted  through  the  air,  as 
they  leaped  from  tree  to  tree,  uttering  a 
short,  wild  note ;  through  the  spreading 
branches  sighed  the  murmuring  breeze 
that  came  from  off  the  ocean  ;  round  the 
shore  the  low  tones  of  the  gently  washing 
surf  were  borne  as  it  came  in  in  faint  un- 
dulations from  the  outer  sea. 

Underneath  the  deepest  shadow  of  the 
palms  lay  Brandon.  He  had  lost  con- 
sciousness when  he  fell  from  the  boat ; 
and  now  for  the  first  time  he  opened  his 
eyes  and  looked  around  upon  the  scene, 
seeing  these  sights  and  hearing  the  mur- 
muring sounds. 

In  front  of  him  stood  Beatrice,  looking 
with  drooped  eyelids  at  the  grass,  her 
arms  half  folded  before  her,  her  head 


uncovered,  her  hair  bound  by  a  sort  of 
fillet  around  the  crown,  and  then 
gathered  in  great  black  curling  masses 
behind.  Her  face  was  pale  as  usual, 
and  had  the  same  marble  whiteness 
which  always  marked  it.  That  face 
was  now  pensive  and  sad ;  but  there 
was  no  weakness  there.  Its  whole  ex- 
pression showed  manifestly  the  self-con- 
tained soul,  the  strong  spirit  evenly 
poised,  willing  and  able  to  endure. 

Brandon  raised  himself  on  one  arm 
and  looked  wonderingly  around.  She 
started  A  vivid  flash  of  joy  spread 
over  her  face  in  one  bright  smile.  She 
hurried  up  and  knelt  down  by  him. 

"  Do  not  move — you  are  weak,"  she 
said,  ^s  tenderly  as  a  mother  to  a  sick 
child. 

Brandon  looked  at  her  fixedly  for  a 
long  time  without  speaking,  She  placed 
her  cool  hand  on  his  forehead.  His  eyes 
closed  as  though  there  were  a  magnetic 
power  in  her  touch.  After  a  while,  as 
she  removed  her  hand,  he  opened  his 
eyes  again.  He  took  her  hand  and  held 
it  fervently  to  his  lips.  "  I  know,"  said 
he,  in  a  low,  dreamy  voice,  "  who  you 
are,  and  who  I  am — but  nothing  more. 
I  know  that  I  have  lost  all  memory  ;  that 
there  has  been  some  past  life  of  great 
sorrow;  but  I  cannot  think  what  that 
sorrow  is — I  know  that  there  has  been 
some  misfortune,  but  I  cannot  remem- 
ber what." 

Beatrice  smiled  sadly.  "It  will  all 
come  to  you  in  time." 


xo8 


THE   SHADOW    OF    THE    AFRICAN    FOREST 


109 


"  At  first  when  I  waked,"  he  mur- 
mured, "  and  looked  around  on  this  scene, 
I  tliought  that  I  had  at  last  entered  the 
spirit  world,  and  that  you  had  come  with 
me;  and  I  felt  a  deep  joy  that  I  can 
never  express.  But  I  see,  and  I  know 
now,  that  I  am  yet  on  the  earth.  Though 
\vliat  shore  of  all  the  earth  this  is,  or  how 
1  got  here,  I  know  not." 

"  You  must  sleep,"  said  she  gently. 

"  And  you — you — you,"  he  murmured, 
with  indescribable  intensity — "  you  com- 
panion, preserver,  guardian  angel — I  feel 
as  though,  if  I  were  not  a  man,  I  could 
weep  my  life  out  at  your  feet." 

"  Do  not  weep,"  said  she  calmly. 
"The  time  for  tears  may  yet  come  ;  but 
it  is  not  now," 

He  looked  at  her  long,  earnestly,  and 
enquiringly,  still  holding  her  hand,  which 
he  had  pressed  to  his  lips.  An  unutter- 
able longing  to  ask  something  was  evi- 
dent ;  but  it  was  checked  by  a  painful 
embarrassment. 

"  I  know  nothing  but  this,"  said  he  at 
last,  "  that  I  have  felt  as  though  sailing 
for  years  over  infinite  seas.  Wave  after 
wave  has  been  impelling  us  on.  A  Hindu 
servant  guided  the  boat.  But  I  lay  weak, 
with  my  head  supported  by  you,  and  your 
arms  around  me.  Yet,  of  all  the  days 
and  all  the  years  that  ever  I  have  known, 
these  were  supreme,  for  all  the  time  was 
one  long  ecstasy.  And  now,  if  there  is 
sorrow  before  me,"  he  concluded,  "  I  will 
meet  it  resignedly,  for  I  have  had  my 
heaven  already." 

"  You  have  sailed  over  seas,"  said  she 
sadly  ;  "  but  I  was  the  helpless  one,  and 
you  saved  me  from  death." 

"  And  are  you — to  me — what  I 
thought  ?  "  he  asked,  with  painful  vehe- 
mence and  imploring  eyes. 

"  I  am  your  nurse,"  said  she,  with  a 
melancholy  smile. 


He  sighed  heavily.  "  Sleep  now,"  said 
she,  and  she  again  placed  her  hand  upon 
his  forehead.  Her  touch  soothed  him. 
Her  voice  arose  in  a  low  song  of  surpass- 
ing sweetness.  His  senses  yielded  to  the 
subtle  incantation,  and  sleep  came  to  him 
as  he  lay. 

When  he  awaked  it  was  almost  even- 
ing. Lethargy  was  still  over  him,  and 
Beatrice  made  him  sleep  again.  He  slept 
into  the  next  day.  On  waking  there  was 
the  same  absence  of  memory.  She  gave 
him  some  cordial  to  drink,  and  the 
draught  revived  him.  Now  he  was  far 
stror  rr,  and  he  sat  up,  leaning  against  a 
tree,  while  Beatrice  knelt  near  him.  He 
looked  at  her  long  and  earnestly. 

"  I  would  wish  never  to  leave  this  place, 
but  to  stay  here,"  said  he.  "  I  know 
nothing  of  my  past  life.  I  have  drunk 
of  Lethe.  Yet  I  cannot  help  struggling 
to  regain  knowledge  of  that  past." 

He  put  his  hand  in  his  bosom,  as  if 
feeling  for  some  relic. 

"  I  have  something  suspended  about 
my  neck,"  said  he,  "  which  is  precious. 
Perhaps  I  shall  know  what  it  is  after  a 
time." 

Then,  after  a  pause,  "  Was  there  not  a 
wreck  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes ;  and  you  saved  my  life." 

"  Was  there  not  a  fight  with  pirates  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  and  you  savct!  my  life,"  said 
Beatrice  again. 

"  I  begin  to  remember,"  said  Brandon. 
"  How  long  is  it  since  the  wreck  took 
place?" 

"  It  was  January  15." 

"  And  what  is  this  ?  " 

"  February  6.    It  is  about  three  weeks." 

"  How  did  I  get  away  ?  " 

"  In  a  boat  with  me  and  the  servant." 

"  Where  is  the  servant  ?  " 

"  Away  providing  for  us.  You  had  a 
sunstroke.     He  carried  you  up  here." 


i  I 


t::i:i 

J 


t 


iiic;.i:;:' 

"!>..'! J 

V  I   ••insH.i.iiSW 


lie 


CORD   AND   CREESE 


"  How  long  have  I  been  in  this  place  ?  " 
"A  fortnight." 

Numerous  questions  followed.  Bran- 
don's memory  began  to  return.  Yet,  in 
his  efforts  to  regain  knowledge  of  him- 
self, Beatrice  was  still  the  most  promi- 
nent object  in  his  thoughts.  His  dream 
life  persisted  in  mingling  itself  with  his 
real  life. 

"But  you,"  he  cried  earnestly — "you, 
how  have  you  endured  all  this?  You 
are  weary ;  you  have  worn  yourself  out 
for  me.  What  can  I  ever  do  to  show  my 
gratitude  ?  You  have  watched  m*^  night 
and  day.  Will  you  not  have  more  care 
of  your  own  life  ?  " 

The  eyes  of  Beatrice  kindled  with  a 
soft  light.  "  What  is  my  life  ?  "  said 
she.  "  Do  I  not  owe  it  over  and  over 
again  to  you  ?  But  I  deny  that  I  am 
worn  out." 

Brandon  looked  at  her  with  earnest, 
longing  eyes. 

His  recovery  was  rapid.  In  a  few  days 
he  was  able  to  go  about.  Cato  procured 
fish  from  the  waters  and  game  from  the 
woods,  so  as  to  save  the  provisions  of  the 
boat,  and  they  looked  forward  to  the  time 
when  they  might  resume  their  journey. 
But  to  Brandon  this  thought  was  repug- 
nant, and  an  hourly  struggle  now  went 
on  within  him.  Why  should  he  go  to 
England  ?  What  could  he  do  ?  Why 
should  he  ever  part  from  her  ? 

"  Oh,  to  bursi  all  links  of  habit,  and  to  wander  far 
away, 
On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateways  of  the 
day ! " 

In  her  presence  he  might  find  peace,  and 
perpetual  rapture  in  her  smile. 

In  the  midst  of  such  meditations  as 
these  her  voice  once  arose  from  afar.  It 
was  one  of  her  own  songs,  such  as  she 
could  improvise.  It  spoke  of  summer 
isles  amid  the  sea;  of  soft  winds  and 


spicy  breezes;  of  eternal  rest  beneath 
overshadowing  palms.  It  was  a  soft, 
melting  strain— a  strain  of  enchantment, 
sung  by  one  who  felt  the  intoxication  of 
the  scene,  and  whose  genius  imparted  It 
to  others.  He  was  like  Ulysses  listenin<j 
to  the  song  of  the  sirens.  It  seemed  to 
him  as  though  all  nature  there  joined  in 
that  marvellous  strain.  It  was  to  him  as 
though  the  very  winds  were  lulled  into 
calm,  and  a  delicious  languor  stole  upon 
all  his  senses. 

"  Sweet,  sweet,  sweet  god  Pan, 
Sweet  in  the  fields  by  the  river, 
Blinding  sweet,  oh,  great  god  Pan, 
The  sun  on  the  hills  forgot  to  die. 
And  the  lily  revived,  and  the  dragon-fly 
Came  back  to  dream  by  the  river." 

It  was  the  fuXiyrjpw  bna,  the  bna  K&Tihfxov 
of  the  sirens. 

For  she  had  that  divine  voice  which  of 
itself  can  charm  the  soul ;  but,  in  addi- 
tioa  she  had  that  poetic  genius  which  of 
itself  could  give  words  which  the  music 
might  clothe. 

Now,  as  he  saw  her  at  a  distance 
through  the  trees  and  marked  the 
statuesque  calm  of  her  classic  face,  as  she 
stood  there,  seeming  in  her  song  rather 
to  soliloquize  than  to  sing,  breathing  foitli 
her  music  "  in  profuse  strains  of  unpre- 
meditated art,"  the  very  beauty  of  the 
singer  and  the  very  sweetness  of  the  song 
put  an  end  to  all  temptation. 

"  This  is  folly,"  he  thought.  "  Could 
one  like  that  assent  to  my  wild  fancy  ? 
Would  she,  with  her  genius,  give  up  her 
life  to  me  ?  No  ;  that  divine  music  must 
be  heard  by  larger  numbers.  She  is  one 
who  thinks  she  can  interpret  the  inspira- 
tion of  Mozart  and  Handel.  And  who 
am  I  ?  " 

Then  there  came  amid  this  music  a 
still  small  voice,  like  the  voice  of  those 
helpless  ones  at  home ;  and  this  voice 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    AFRICAN    FOREST 


III 


scorned  one  of  entreaty  and  of  despair. 
So  the  temptation  passed  Hut  it  passed 
only  to  be  renewed  again.  As  for  Hca- 
trice,  she  seemed  conscious  of  no  such 
effect  as  this.  Cahnly  and  serenely  she 
bore  herself;  singing  as  she  thought,  as 
the  birds  sing,  because  she  could  not 
help  it.  Here  she  was  like  one  of  the 
classic  nymphs — like  the  genius  of  the 
spot — like  Calypso,  only  passionless. 

Now,  the  more  Brandon  felt  the  power 
of  her  presence  the  more  he  took  refuge 
within  himself,  avoiding  all  dangerous 
topics,  speaking  only  of  external  things, 
calling  upon  her  to  sing  of  loftier  themes, 
such  as  those  "  cieli  immensi  "  of  which 
she  had  sung  when  he  first  heard  her. 
Thus  he  fought  down  the  struggles  of 
his  own  heart,  and  crushed  out  those 
rising  impulses  which  threatened  to 
sweep  him  helplessly  away. 

As  for  Beatrice  herself  she  seemed 
changeless,  moved  by  no  passion  and 
swayed  by  no  impulse.  Was  she  alto- 
gether passionless,  or  was  this  her  mati  'n- 
less  self-control  ?  Brandon  thought  that 
it  was  her  nature,  and  that  she,  like  her 
master  Langhetti,  found  in  music  that 
which  satisfied  all  passion  and  all  desire. 

In  about  a  fortnight  after  his  recovery 
from  his  stupor  they  were  ready  to  leave. 
The  provisions  in  the  boat  were  enough 
for  two  weeks'  sail.  Water  was  put  on 
board,  and  they  bade  adieu  to  the  island 
which  had  sheltered  them. 

This  time  Beatrice  would  not  let  Bran- 
don row  while  the  sun  was  up.  They 
rowed  at  night,  and  by  day  tried  to  get 
under  the  shadow  of  the  shore.  At  last 
a  wind  sprang  up  ;  they  now  sailed  along 
swiftly  for  two  or  three  days.  At  the  end 
of  that  time  they  saw  European  houses, 
beyond  which  arose  some  roofs  and 
spires.  It  was  Sierra  Leone.  Brandon's 
conjectures  had  been  right.    On  landing 


here  Brandon  simply  said  that  they  had 
been  wrecked  in  the  Falcon,  and  had 
escaped  on  -the  boat,  all  the  rest  having 
perished.  He  gave  his  name  as  Wheeler. 
The  authorities  received  these  unfortunate 
ones  with  great  kindness,  and  Brandon 
heard  that  a  ship  would  leave  for  Eng- 
land on  the  6th  of  March. 

The  close  connection  which  had  ex- 
isted between  them  for  so  many  weeks 
was  now  severed,  and  Brandon  thought 
that  this  might  perhaps  remove  that 
extraordinary  power  which  he  felt  that 
she  exerted  over  him.  Not  so.  In  her 
absence  he  found  himself  constantly 
looking  forward  toward  a  meeting  with 
her  again.  When  with  her  he  found  the 
joy  that  flowed  from  her  presence  to  be 
more  intense,  since  it  was  more  con- 
centrated. He  began  to  feel  alarmed 
at  his  own  weakness. 

The  6th  of  March  came,  and  they  left 
in  the  ship/w/w  for  London. 

Now  their  intercourse  was  like  that  of 
the  old  days  on  board  the  Falcon. 

"  It  is  like  the  Falcon,"  said  Beatrice, 
on  the  first  evening.  "  Let  us  forget  all 
about  the  journey  over  the  sea,  and  our 
stay  on  the  island." 

"  I  can  never  forget  that  I  owe  my  life 
to  you,"  said  Brandon  vehemently. 

"  And  I,"  rejoiced  Beatrice,  with  kin- 
dling eyes,  which  yet  were  softened  by  a 
certain  emotion  of  indescribable  tender- 
ness— "  I — how  can  I  forget  ?  Twice 
you  saved  me  from  a  fearful  death,  and 
then  you  toiled  to  save  my  life  till  your 
own  sank  under  it." 

"  I  would  gladly  give  up  a  thousand 
lives " — said  Brandon,  in  a  low  voice, 
while  his  eyes  were  illumined  with  a 
passion  which  had  never  before  been 
permitted  to  get  beyond  control,  but  now 
rose  visibly,  and  irresistibly. 

'•  If  you    have  a    life    to  give,"  said 


c:x3 

CZl't 

f    it"**' 


''      1 


1  )•«■.« 


xia 


CORD    AND  CREESE 


Beatrice  calmly,  returning  his  fevered 
g.'  ze  with  a  look  full  of  tender  sympathy 
—"if  you  have  a  life  to  give,  let  it  be 
given  to  that  purpose  of  yours  to  which 
you  are  devoted." 

"  You  refuse  it,  then  ! "  cried  Brandon 
vehemently  and  reproachfully. 

Beatrice  returned  his  reproachful  gaze 
with  one  equally  reproachful,  and  raising 
her  calm  eyes  to  Heaven,  said  in  a  tremu- 
lous voice. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  say  so— least  of 
all  to  me,  I  said  what  you  feel  and 
know ;  and  it  is  this,  that  others  require 
your  life,  in  comparison  with  whom  I  am 
nothing.  Ah,  my  friend,"  she  continued, 
in  tones  of  unutterable  sadness,  "  let  us 
be  friends  here  at  least,  on  the  sea,  for 
when  we  reach  England  we  must  be 
separated  for  evermore  !  " 

"  For  evermore  }  "  cried  Brandon,  in 
agony. 

"  For  evermore  !  "  repeated  Beatrice, 
in  equal  anguish. 

"  Do  you  feel  very  eager  to  get  to  Eng- 
land ? "    asked    Brandon,  after   a    long 
silence. 
"  No." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  I  know  that  there  is  sorrow 
for  me  there." 

'•  If  our  boat  had  been  destroyed  on 
the  shore  of  that  island,"  he  asked,  in 
almost  an  imploring  voice,  "  would  you 
.'  ve  grieved?" 
"  No." 

"  The  present  is  better  than  the  future. 
Oh,  that  my  dream  had  continued  forever, 
and  that  I  had  never  awaked  to  the  bit- 
terness of  life  I " 

"  That,"  said  Beatrice,  with  a  mournful 
smile,  "  is  a  reproach  to  me  for  watching 
you." 

"Yet  that  moment  of  awaking  was 
sweet  beyond    all    thought,"  continued 


Brandon,  in  a  musing  tone,  *•  for  1  hnd 
lost  all  memory  of  all  things  except 
you." 

They  stood  in  silence,  sometimes  look- 
ing at  one  another,  sometimes  at  the  sea, 
while  the  dark  shadows  of  the  Future 
swept  gloomily  before  their  eyes. 

The  voyage  passed  on  until  at  last  tlie 
English  shores  were  seen,  and  they  sailed 
up  the  Channel  amid  the  thronj,nn^; 
ships  that  pass  to  and  fro  from  the 
metropolis  of  the  world. 

"  To-morrow  we  part,"  said  Beatrice, 
as  she  stood  with  Brandon  on  the 
quarter-deck. 

"No,"  said  Brandon;  "there  will  be 
no  one  to  meet  you  here.  I  must  take 
you  to  your  home." 

"To  my  home!  You?"  cried  Bca- 
trice,  starting  back.    "You  dare  not." 

"I  dare." 

"  Do  you  know  what  it  is  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  seek  to  know.  I  do  not 
ask;  but  yet  I  think  I  know." 

"  And  y^Xyoti  offer  to  go? " 

"  I  must  go.  1  must  see  you  to  the 
very  last." 

"  Be  it  so,"  said  Beatrice,  in  a  solemn 
voice,  "  since  it  is  the  very  last." 

Suddenly  she  looked  at  him  with  the 
solemn  gaze  of  one  whose  soul  was 
filled  with  thoughts  that  overpowered 
every  common  feeling.  It  was  a  glance 
lofty  and  serene  and  unimpassioned,  like 
that  of  some  spirit  which  has  passed 
beyond  human  cares,  but  sad  as  that  of 
some  prophet  of  •  oe. 

"  Louis  Brandon  ! " 

At  this  mention  of  his  name  a  flash  of 
unspeakable  surprise  passed  over  Bran- 
don's face.  She  held  out  her  hand. 
"Take  my  hand,"  said  she  calmly,  "and 
hold  it  so  that  I  may  have  strength  to 
speak." 

"  Louis  Brandon  !  "  said  she,    "  there 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    AFRICAN    FOREST 


»i3 


I 

I  1 


■  I  hnd 
except 

:s  look- 
ihe  sea, 

Future 
;. 

last  the 
;y  saileil 

roin  tite 

Beatrice, 
on    the 

B  will  l)e 
lUSt  take 

ied   liea- 
are  not." 


I  do  not 


)U  to  the 


with  the 
soul  was 
erpowered 
5  a  glance 
lioned,  like 
as  passed 
as  that  of 


was  a  time  on  that  African  island  when 
you  iiiy  under  the  trees  and  I  was  sure 
that  you  were  dead.  There  was  no 
heating  to  your  heart,  and  no  percep- 
tible breath.  The  last  test  failed,  the 
last  hope  left  me,  and  I  knelt  by  your 
head,  and  took  you  in  my  arms  and  wept 
iti  my  despair.  At  your  feet  Cato  knelt 
and  mourned  in  his  Hindu  fashion. 
Then,  mechanically  and  hopelessly,  he 
made  a  last  trial  to  see  if  you  were 
really  dead,  so  that  he  might  prepare 
your  grave.  He  put  his  hand  under 
your  clothes,  against  your  heart.  He 
held  it  there  for  a  long  time.  Your 
heart  gave  no  answer.  He  withdrew  it, 
and  in  doing  so  took  something  away 
that  was  suspended  about  your  neck. 
This  was  a  metallic  case  and  a  package 
wrapped  in  oiled  silk.  He  gave  them  to 
me." 

Beatrice  had  spoken  with  a  sad,  meas- 
ured tone — such  a  tone  as  one  sometimes 
uses  in  prayer — a  passionless  monotone, 
without  agitation  and  without  shame. 
Brandon  answered  not  a  word. 
"  Take  my  hand,"  she  said,  "  or  I  can- 
not go  through.  This  only  can  give  me 
strength." 

He  clasped  it  tightly  in  both  of  his. 
She  drew  a  long  breath,  and  continued  : 
"  I  thought  you  dead,  and  knew  the 
full  measure  of  despair.  Now,  when 
these  were  given  me,  I  wished  to  know 
the  secret  of  the  man  who  had  twice 
rescued  me  from  death,  and  finally  laid 
down  his  life  for  my  sake.  I  did  it  not 
through  curiosity.  I  did  it,"  and  her 
voice  rose  slightly,  with  solemn  empha- 
sis—" I  did  it  through  a  holy  feeling 
that,  since  my  life  was  due  to  you,  there- 
fore, as  yours  was  gone,  mine  should 
replace  it,  and  be  devoted  to  the  purpose 
which  you  had  undertaken. 
"  I  opened  first  the  metallic  case.    It 


was  under  the  dim  sh.idc  ol  the  African 
forest,  and  while  holding  un  my  knees 
the  head  of  the  man  who  had  laid  down 
his  life  for  me.  You  know  what  I  read 
there.  I  read  of  u  father's  love  and 
agony.  I  read  there  the  name  of  the  one 
who  had  driven  him  to  death.  The 
shadows  of  the  forest  grew  darker  around 
me ;  as  the  full  meaning  of  that  revela- 
tion came  over  my  soul  they  deepened 
into  blackness,  and  I  fell  senseless  by 
your  side. 

"Better  had  Cato  left  us  both  lying 
there  to  die,  and  gone  off  in  the  boat 
himself.  But  he  revived  me.  I  laid  "du 
down  gently,  and  propped  up  your  head, 
but  never  again  dared  to  defile  you  with 
the  touch  of  one  so  infamous  as  I. 

"  There  still  remained  the  other  pack- 
age, which  I  read — how  you  reached  that 
island,  and  hov/  you  got  that  MS.,  I 
neither  know  nor  seek  to  discover ;  I  only 
know  that  all  my  spirit  awaked  within 
me  as  I  read  those  words.  A  strange, 
inexplicable  feeling  arose.  I  forgot  all 
about  you  and  your  griefs.  My  whole 
soul  was  fixed  on  the  figure  of  that 
bereaved  and  solitary  man,  who  thus 
drifted  to  his  fate.  He  seemed  to  speak 
to  me.  A  fancy,  born  out  of  frenzy,  no 
doubt,  for  all  that  horror  well-nigh  drove 
me  mad— a  fancy  came  to  me  that  this 
voice,  which  had  come  from  a  distance  of 
eighteen  years,  had  spoken  to  me ;  a 
wild  fancy,  because  I  was  eighteen  years 
old,  that  therefore  I  was  connected  with 
these  eighteen  years,  filled  my  whole 
soul.  I  thought  that  this  MS.  was  mine, 
and  the  other  one  yours.  I  read  it  over 
and  over,  and  over  yet  again,  till  every 
word  forced  itself  into  my  memory— till 
you  and  your  sorrows  sank  into  oblivion 
beside  the  woes  of  this  man. 

"  I  sat  near  you  all  that  night.    The 
palms  sigiievi  in  the  air.     I   dared  not 


1"    'i'"" 

'^H  J.<MMf  I 

f! 'I J 

:ai« 

.....    :S' 


Hi: 


M 


114 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


touch  you.  My  brain  whirled.  I  thought 
I  heard  voices  out  at  sea,  and  figures 
appeared  in  the  gloom.  I  thought  I  saw 
before  me  the  form  of  Colonel  Despard. 
He  looked  at  me  with  sadness  unutter- 
able, yet  with  soft  pity  and  affection,  and 
extended  his  hand  as  though  to  bless 
me.  Madder  fancies  than  ever  then 
rushed  through  my  brain.  But  when 
morning  came  and  the  excitement  had 
passed  I  knew  that  I  had  been  delirious. 

"  When  that  morning  came  I  went 
over  to  look  at  you.  To  my  amaze- 
ment, you  were  breathing.  Your  life 
was  renewed  of  itself.  I  knelt  down  and 
praised  God  for  this,  but  did  not  dare  to 
touch  you.  I  folded  up  the  treasures, 
and  told  Cato  to  put  them  again  around 
your  neck.  Then  I  watched  you  till  you 
recovered. 

"  But  on  that  night,  and  after  reading 
thope  MSS.,  I  seemed  to  have  passed 
into  another  stage  of  being.  I  can  say 
things  to  you  now  which  I  would  not 
have  dared  to  say  before,  and  strength  is 
given  me  to  tell  you  all  this  before  we 
part  for  evermore. 

"  I  have  awakened  to  infamy  ;  for  what 
is  infamy  if  it  be  not  this,  to  bear  the 
name  I  bear?  Something  more  than 
pride  or  vanity  has  been  the  foundation 
of  that  feeling  of  shame  and  hate  with 
which  I  have  always  regarded  it.  And  I 
have  now  died  to  my  former  life,  and 
awakened  to  a  new  one. 

"Louis  Brandon,  the  agonies  which 
may  be  suffered  by  those  whom  you  seek 
to  avenge  I  can  conjecture  but  I  wish 
never  to  hear.  I  pray  God  that  I  may 
never  know  what  it  might  break  my 
heart  to  learn.  You  must  save  them, 
you  must  also  avenge  them.  You  are 
strong,  and  you  are  implacable.  When 
you  strike  your  blow  will  be  crushing. 

"  But  I  must  g )  and  bear  my  lot  among 


those  you  strike ;  I  will  wait  on  among 
them,  sharing  their  infamy  and  their  fato. 
When  your  blow  falls  I  will  not  turn 
away.  I  will  think  of  those  dear  ones  of 
yours  who  have  suffered,  and  for  their 
sakes  will  accept  the  blow  of  revenge." 

Brandon  had  held  her  hand  in  silence, 
and  with  a  convulsive  pressure  during 
these  words.  As  she  stopped  she  made 
a  faint  effort  to  withdraw  it.  He  would 
not  let  her.  He  raised  it  to  his  lips  and 
pressed  it  there. 

Three  times  he  made  an  effort  to  speak, 
and  each  time  failed.  At  last,  with  a 
strong  exertion,  he  uttered,  in  a  hoarse 
voice  and  broken  tones  : 

*'  O  Beatrice !  Beatrice !  how  I  love 
you ! " 

"  I  know  it,"  said  she,  in  the  same 
monotone  which  she  had  used  before  a 
tone  of  infinite  mournfulness — "  I  have 
known  it  long,  and  I  would  say  also, 
'  Louis  Brandon,  I  love  you,'  if  it  were 
not  that  this  would  be  the  last  infamy ; 
that  you,  Brandon,  of  Brandon  Hall, 
should  be  loved  by  one  who  bears  my 
name." 

The  hours  of  the  night  passed  away. 
They  stood  watching  the  English  shores, 
speaking  little.  Brandon  clung  to  her 
hand.  They  were  sailing  up  the  Thames. 
It  was  about  four  in  the  morning. 

"We  shall  soon  be  there,"  said  he; 
"  sing  to  me  for  the  last  time.  Sing,  and 
forget  for  a  moment  that  we  must  part." 

Then,  in  a  low  voice,  of  soft  but  pene- 
trating tones,  which  thrilled  through 
every  fibre  of  Brandon's  being,  Beatrice 
began  to  sing : 

"  Love  made  us  one  ;  our  unity 
Is  indissoluble  by  act  of  thine, 
For  were  this  mortal  being  ended, 
And  our  freed  spirits  in  the  world  above, 
Love,  ppssing  o'er  the  grave,  would  join  us  tlierf 
As  once  he  joined  us  here  ; 
And  the  sad  memory  of  the  life  below 


ENQUIRIES 


"5 


Would  but  unite  us  closer  evermore. 
No  act  of  thine  may  loose 
Thee  from  the  eternal  bond, 
Nor  shall  Revenge  have  power 
To  disunite  us  there  !  " 

On  that  same  day  they  landed  in  Lon- 
don. The  Governor's  lady  at  Sierra 
Leone  had  insisted  on  replenishing  Bea- 
trice's wardrobe,  so  that  she  showed  no 
appearance  of  having  gone  through  the 
troubles  which  had  afflicted  her  on  sea 
and  shore. 

Brandon  took  her  to  a  hotel  and  then 
went  to  his  agent's.  He  also  examined 
tiie  papers  for  the  last  four  months.  He 
read  in  the  morning  journals  a  notice 
which  had  already  appeared  of  the  arrival 
of  the  ship  off  the  Nore,  and  the  state- 
ment that  three  of  the  passengers  of  the 
Falcon  had  reached  Sierra  Leone.  He 
communicated  to  the  owners  of  the 
Falcon  the  particulars  of  the  loss  of  the 
ship,  and  earned  their  thanks,  for  they 


were  able  to  get  their  insurance  without 
waiting  a  year,  as  is  necessary  where 
nothing  is  heard  of  a  missing  vessel. 

He  travelled  with  Beatrice  by  rail  and 
coach  as  far  as  the  village  of  Brandon. 
At  the  inn  he  engaged  a  carriage  to 
take  her  up  to  her  father's  house.  It 
was  Brandon  Hall,  as  he  very  well 
knew. 

But  little  was  said  during  all  this  time. 
Words  were  useless.  Silence  formed  the 
best  communion  for  them.  He  took 
her  hand  at  parting.  She  spoke  not  a 
word ;  his  lips  mov_J,  but  no  audible 
sound  escaped.  Yet  in  their  eyes,  as 
they  fastened  themselves  on  one  another 
in  an  intense  gaze,  there  was  read  all  that 
unutterable  passion  of  love,  of  longing, 
and  of  sorrow  that  each  felt.  The  car- 
riage drove  off.  Brandon  watched  it. 
"  Now  farewell.  Love,  forever,"  he  mur- 
mured, "  and  welcome  Vengeance ! " 


CHAPTER  XVHI 


ENQUIRIES 


So  many  years  had  elapsed  since  Bran- 
don had  last  been  in  the  village  which 
bore  the  family  name  that  he  had  no  fear 
of  being  recognized.  He  had  been  a  boy 
then,  he  was  now  a  man.  His  features 
had  passed  fiom  a  transition  state  into 
their  mature  form,  and  a  thick  beard  and 
mustache,  the  growth  of  the  long  voyage, 
covered  the  lower  part  of  the  face  like  a 
mask.  His  nose,  which,  when  he  left, 
had  a  boyish  roundness  of  outline,  had 
since  become  refined  and  chiselled  into 
the  straight,  thin  Grecian  type.  His  eyes 
alone  remained  the  same,  yet  the  expres- 
sion had  grown  different,  even  as  the  soul 


that  look'  1  forth  through  them  had  been 
changed  by  experience  and  suffering. 

He  gave  himself  out  at  the  inn  as  an 
American  merchant,  and  went  out  to  be- 
gin his  enquiries.  Tearing  two  buttons 
off  his  coat,  he  entered  the  shop  of  the 
village  tailor. 

"Good-morning,"  said  he  civilly. 

"  Good-morning,  sir ;  fine  morning, 
sir,"  answered  the  tailor  volubly.  He 
was  a  little  man,  with  a  cast  in  his  eye, 
and  on  l-oking  at  Brandon  he  had  to  put 
his  head  on  one  side,  which  he  did  with 
a  quick,  odd  gesture. 

"  There  are  two  buttons  off  my  coat, 


■"n;; 
*' 


"Si 

'"«ii'„C"'' 

iiC" "'y 

iji„.....!*"»>«i 

ill •'"'••«> 

'"£'?:> 


tesr-^ir 


ii6 


CORD    AND    CREESE 


and  I  want  to  know  if  you  can  repair  it 
for  me  ?  " 

"Certainly,  sir;  certainly.  Take  off 
your  coat,  sir,  and  sit  down." 

"The  buttons,"  said  Brandon,  "are  a 
little  odd  ;  but  if  you  have  not  got  any 
exactly  like  them,  anything  similar  will  do." 

"  Oh,  I  think  we'll  fit  you  out,  sir.  I 
think  we'll  fit  you  out,"  rejoined  the  tailor 
briskly. 

He  bustled  about  among  his  boxes  and 
drawers,  pulled  out  a  large  number  of 
articles,  and  finally  began  to  select  the 
buttons  which  were  nearest  like  those  on 
the  coat. 

"  This  is  a  fine  little  village,"  said 
Brandon  carelessly. 

"  Yes,  sir;  that's  a  fact,  sir;  that's  just 
what  everybody  says,  sir." 

"  What  old  Hall  is  that  which  I  saw 
just  outside  the  village  ?  " 

"  Ah,  sir,  that  old  Hall  is  the  very  best 
in  the  whole  county.  It  is  Brandon  Hall, 
sir." 

"  Brandon  Hall  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  I  suppose  this  village  takes  the  name 
from  the  Hall — or  is  it  the  Hall  that  is 
named  after  the  village  ?  " 

"Well,  neither,  sir.  Both  of  them 
were  named  after  the  Brandon  family." 

"  Is  it  an  old  family  ?  It  must  be,  of 
course." 

"The  oldest  in  the  county,  sir." 

"  I  wonder  if  Mr.  Brandon  would  let  a 
stranger  go  through  his  grounds  ?  There 
is  a  hill  back  of  the  house  that  I  should 
like  to  see." 

"  Mr.  Brandon  !  "  exclaimed  the  tailor, 
shaking  his  head ;  "  Mr.  Brandon ! 
There  aint  no  Mr.  Brandon   now!" 

"  How  is  that  ?  " 

"  Gone,  sir — ruined — died  out." 

"  Then  the  man  that  lives  there  now  is 
not  Mr.  Brandon  ?  " 


"  Nothing  of  the  kind,  sir !  He,  sir ! 
Why  he  isn't  fit  to  clean  the  shoes  of  any 
of  the  old  Brandons !  " 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  His  name,  sir,  is  Potts." 

"  Potts  !  That  doesn't  sound  like  one 
of  your  old  county  names." 

"  I  should  think  not,  sir.  Potts !  Why, 
sir,  he's  generally  believed  in  this  here 
community  to  be  a  villain,  sir,"  said  the 
little  tailor  mysteriously,  and  with  the 
look  of  a  man  who  would  like  very  well 
to  be  questioned  further. 

Brandon  humored  him.  "  How  is 
that?" 

"  It's  a  long  story,  sir." 

"  Oh,  well— tell  it.  I  have  a  great 
curiosity  to  hear  any  old  stories  current 
in  your  English  villages.  I'm  an  Ameri- 
can, and  English  life  is  new  to  me." 

"  I'll  bet  you  never  heard  anything  like 
this  in  all  your  born  days." 

"  Tell  it,  then,  by  all  means. 

The  tailor  jumped  down  from  his  seat, 
went  mysteriously  to  the  door,  looked 
cautiously  out,  and  then  returned. 

"  It's  just  as  well  to  be  a  little  careful, " 
said  he,  "  for  if  that  man  knew  that  I  was 
talking  about  him  he'd  take  it  out  of  me 
quick  enough,  I  tell  you." 

"  You  seem  to  be  afraid  of  him." 

"  We're  all  afraid  of  him  in  the  village, 
and  hate  him  r  but  I  hope  to  God  he'll 
catch  it  yet!" 

"  How  can  you  be  afraid  of  him  ? 
You  all  say  that  this  is  a  free  country." 

"  No  man,  sir,  in  any  country,  is  free, 
except  he's  rich.  Poor  people  can  be 
oppressed  in  many  ways;  and  most  of 
us  are  in  one  way  or  other  dependent 
on  him.  We  hate  him  all  the  worse 
though.    But   I'll  tell  you  about  him." 

"  Yes,  go  on." 

"  Well,  sir,  old  Mr.  Brandon,  about 
twenty  years  ago,  was  one  of  the  richest 


ku  ■ 


ENQUIRIES 


117 


men  in  the  county.  About  fifteen  years 
ago  tlie  man  Potts  turned  up,  and  how- 
ever the  old  man  took  a  fancy  to  him  I 
never  could  see,  but  he  did  take  a  fancy 
to  him,  put  all  his  money  in  some  tin 
mines  that  Potts  had  started,  and  the  end 
of  it  was  Potts  turned  out  a  scoundrel, 
as  everyone  said  he  would,  swindled  the 
old  man  out  of  every  penny,  and  ruined 
him  completely.  Brandon  had  to  sell 
his  estate,  and  Potts  bought  it  with  the 
very  money  out  of  which  he  had  cheated 
the  old  man." 

"  Oh  !  impossible  ! "  said  Brandon. 
"  Isn't  that  some  village  gossip  ?  " 

"  I  wish  it  was,  sir — but  it  aint.  Go 
ask  any  man  here,  and  he'll  tell  you  the 
same." 

•'  And  what  became  of  the  family  ?  " 
asked  Brandon  calmly. 

"  Ah,  sir !  that  is  the  worst  part  of  it." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you,  sir.  He  was  ruined. 
He  gave  up  all.  He  hadn't  a  penny  left. 
He  went  out  of  the  Hall  and  lived  for  a 
short  time  in  a  small  house  at  the  other 
end  of  the  village.  At  last  he  spent 
what  little  money  he  had  left,  and  they 
all  got  sick.  You  wouldn't  believe  what 
happened  after  that." 

"  What  was  it  ?  " 

"They  were  all  taken  to  the  alms- 
house." 

A  burst  of  thunder  seemed  to  sound  in 
Brandon's  ears  as  he  heard  this,  which 
he  had  never  even  remotely  imagined. 
The  tailor  was  occupied  with  his  own 
thoughts,  and  did  not  notice  the  wildness 
that  for  an  instant  appeared  in  Brandon's 
eyes.  The  latter  for  a  moment  felt 
paralyzed  and  struck  down  into  nothing- 
ness by  the  shock  of  that  tremendous 
intelligence. 

"  The  people  felt  dreadfully  about  it," 
continued  the  tailor,  "  but  they  couldn't 


do  anything.  It  was  Potts  who  had  the 
family  taken  to  the  almshouse.  Nobody 
dared  to  interfere." 

"  Did  none  of  the  county  families  do 
anything?"  said  Brandon,  who  at  last, 
by  a  violent  effort,  had  regained  his 
composure. 

*'  No.  They  had  all  been  insulted  by 
the  old  man,  so  now  they  let  him  suffer." 

"  Had  he  no  old  friends,  or  even  ac- 
quaintances? " 

"  Well,  that's  what  we  all  asked  our- 
selves, sir;  but  at  any  rate,  whether  he 
had  or  not,  they  didn't  turn  up — that  is, 
not  in  time.  There  was  a  young  man 
here  when  it  was  too  late." 

"  A  young  man  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

•'  Was  he  a  relative  ?  " 

"Oh,  no,  sir,  only  a  lawyer's  clerk; 
wanted  to  see  about  business,  I  dare  say. 
Perhaps  to  collect  a  bill.  Let  me  see ; 
the  lawyer  who  sent  him  was  named 
Thornton." 

"Thornton!"  said  Brandon,  as  the 
name  sank  into  his  soul. 

•'  Yes  ;  he  lived  at  Holby." 

Brandon  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  No,  sir ;  no  friends  came,  whether  he 
had  any  or  not.  They  were  all  sick  at 
the  almshouse  for  weeks." 

"  And  I  suppose  they  all  died  there?  " 
said  Brandon,  in  a  strange,  sweet  voice. 

**  No,  sir.     They  were  not  so  happy." 

"  What  suffering  could  be  greater." 

"  They  do  talk  dreadfully  in  this  town, 
sir ;  and  I  dare  say  it's  not  true,  but  if  it 
is  it's  enough  to  make  a  man's  blood  run 
cold." 

•'  You  excite  my  curiosity.  Remember 
I  am  an  American,  and  these  things 
seem  odd  to  me.  I  always  thought  your 
British  aristocrats  could  not  be  ruined." 

"  Here  was  one,  sir,  that  was,  any- 
how." 


■I  •|l»>>»tli>lM>«t» 

<.!.".  ■..,..,.1 

c  :::•>. 

"""'  f 

t<H|ii4"-'iirMii,. 

f"  '/"" 

8...,,.Ji„>,l!' 

1 - , 

t«t ,..     ^' 

"•''i inutur^ 


'  "''11 ,, 


Still' Mt) 


M  >l>H|i>  hlWII-IHII 

(l.'lwt'  ...  ill.!.MH 

Ii!, !« J 

„  ..„n,...3J«« 
-I  ■»'»IMI 

-■  ::;,::'»»* 

'-•''"■HtdHimii 


ii8 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


"Go  on." 

"  Well,  sir,  the  old  man  died  in  the 
almshouse.  The  others  got  */ell.  As 
soon  as  they  were  well  enough  they  went 
away." 

"  How  did  they  get  away  ?  " 

"Potts  helped  them," replied  the  tailor 
in  a  peculiar  tone.  "They  went  away 
from  the  village." 

"  Where  did  they  go  ?  " 

"  People  say  to  Liverpool.  I  only  tell 
what  I  know.  I  heard  young  Bill  Potts, 
the  old  fellow's  son,  boasting  one  night 
at  the  inn  where  he  was  half  drunk,  how 
they  had  served  the  Brandons.  He  said 
they  wanted  to  leave  the  village,  so  his 
father  helped  them  away  to  America." 

"  To  America  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

Brandon  made  no  rejoinder. 

"  Bill  Potts  said  they  went  to  Liver- 
pool, and  then  left  for  America  to  make 
their  fortunes." 

"  What  part  of  America  ?  "  asked  Bran- 
don indifferently.  "  I  never  saw  or 
heard  of  them." 

"Didn't  you,  sir? "asked  the  tailor, 
who  evidently  thought  that  America  was 
like  some  English  county,  where  every- 
body may  hear  of  everybody  else. 
"That's  odd,  too.  I  was  going  to  ask 
you  if  you  had." 

"I  wonder  what  ship  they  went  out 
in?" 

"That  I  can't  say,  sir.  Bill  Potts 
kept  dark  about  that.  He  said  one  thing, 
though,  that  set  us  thinking." 

"  What  was  that  ?  " 

"  Why,  that  they  went  out  in  an  emi- 
grant ship  as  steerage  passengers." 

Brandon  was  silent. 

"  Poor  people  !  "  said  he  at  last. 

By  this  time  the  tailor  had  finished  his 
coat  and  handed  it  back  to  him.  Having 
obtained  all  the    information  that  the 


man  could  give  Brandon  paid  him  and 
left. 

Passing  by  the  inn  he  walked  on  till 
he  came  to  the  almshouse.  Here  he 
stood  for  a  while  and  looked  at  it. 

Brandon  almshouse  was  small,  badly 
planned,  badly  managed,  and  badly 
built,  everything  done  there  was  badly 
and  meanlv  done.  It  was  whitewashed 
from  the  topmost  point  of  every  chimney 
down  to  the  lowest  edge  of  the  basement. 
A  whited  sepulchre.  For  there  was  the 
foulness  there,  in  the  air,  in  the  surround- 
ings, in  everything.  Squalor  and  dirt 
reigned.  His  heart  grew  sick  as  those 
hideous  walls  rose  before  his  sight. 

Between  this  and  Brandon  Hall  there 
was  a  difference,  a  distance  almost  im- 
measurable ;  to  pass  from  one  to  the 
other  might  be  conceived  of  as  incredible ; 
and  yet  that  passage  had  been  made. 

To  fall  so  far  as  to  go  the  whole  dis- 
tance between  the  two ;  to  begin  in  one 
and  end  in  the  other;  to  be  born,  brought 
up,  and  live  and  move  and  have  one's 
being  in  the  one,  and  then  to  die  in  the 
other;  what  was  more  incredible  than 
this  ?  Yet  this  had  been  the  fate  of  his 
father. 

Leaving  the  place,  he  walked  directly 
toward  Brandon  Hall. 

Brandon  Hall  was  begun,  nobody 
knows  exactly  when ;  but  it  is  said  that  the 
foundations  were  laid  before  the  time 
of  Egbert.  In  all  parts  of  the  old  man- 
sion the  progress  of  English  civilization 
might  be  studied  ;  in  the  Norman  arches 
of  the  old  chapel,  the  slender  pointed 
style  of  the  fifteenth  century  doorway 
that  opened  to  the  same,  the  false  Grecian 
of  the  early  Tudor  period,  and  the  wing 
added  in  Elizabeth's  day,  the  days  of  that 
old  Ralph  Brandon  who  sank  his  ship 
and  its  treasure  to  prevent  it  from  falling 
into  the  hands  of  the  enemy. 


Aro 

scenes 
savt.  i 
green 
rose  gi 
to  inn 
bounde 
The  bt 
went  uj 
scenei'y 
meadov 
Before 
three  ni 
an  emin 
vening 
might  s 
country ; 
margin  c 
promont( 
side  of  V 
a  lighthc 
promontc 
two  the  V 
A  little  cc 
and  arou 
Brandon. 
Brando 
and  most 
England, 
it  rose   bi 
six  hundn 
rising  ou 
speaking 


ENQUIRIES 


119 


m  and 

on  till 
ere  he 
t  it. 
,  badly 
badly 
s  badly 
washed 
;himney 
.sement. 
was  the 
irround- 
ind  dirt 
as  those 
ght. 

all  there 
most  ini- 
e  to  the 
icredible ; 
nade. 
/bole  dis- 
'•in  in  one 
I,  brought 
ave  one's 
die  in  the 
ible  than 
:ate  of  his 

d  directly 

nobody 
.id  that  the 
the  time 
old  man- 
civilization 
lan  arches 
er  pointed 
doorway 
se  Grecian 
the  wing 
ays  of  that 
k  bis  ship 
rem  falling 


Around  this  grand  old  Hall  were 
scenes  which  could  be  found  nowhere 
savt,  in  England.  Wide  fields,  forever 
green  with  grass  like  velvet,  over  which 
rose  groves  of  oak  and  elm,  giving  shelter 
to  innumerable  birds.  There  the  deer 
bounded  and  the  hare  found  a  covert. 
The  broad  avenue  that  led  to  the  Hall 
went  up  through  a  world  of  rich  sylvan 
scenery,  winding  through  groves  and 
meadows  and  over  undulating  ground. 
Before  the  Hall  lay  the  open  sea  about 
three  miles  away ;  but  the  Hall  was  on 
an  eminence  and  overlooked  all  the  inter- 
vening ground.  Standing  there  one 
might  see  the  gradual  decline  of  the 
country  as  it  sloped  downward  toward  the 
margin  of  the  ocean.  On  the  left  a  bold 
promontory  jutted  far  out,  on  the  nearer 
side  of  which  there  was  an  island  with 
a  lighthouse ;  on  the  right  was  another 
promontory,  not  so  bold.  Between  ther-e 
two  the  whole  country  was  like  a  garden. 
A  little  cove  gave  shelter  to  small  vessels, 
and  around  this  cove  was  the  village  of 
Brandon. 

Brandon  Hall  was  one  of  the  oldest 
and  most  magnificent  of  the  gieat  halls  of 
England.  As  Brandon  looked  upon  it 
it  rose  before  him  amid  the  groves  of 
six  hundred  years,  its  many-gabled  roof 
rising  out  from  amid  a  sea  of  foliage, 
speaking  of  wealth,  luxury,  splendor, 
power,  influence,  and  all  that  men  hope 
for,  or  struggle  for,  or  fight  for  ;  from  all 
of  which  he  and  his  had  been  cast  out ; 
and  the  one  who  had  done  this  was  even 
now  occupying  the  old  ancestral  seat  of 
his  family. 

Brandon  entered  the  gate,  and  walked 

up  the  long  avenue,  till   he  reached   the 

Hall.     Here  he  rang   the  bell,  and  a 

servant    appeared.      "  Is  Mr.   Potts    at 

home  ? " 

"Yes,"  said  the  man  brusquely. 
0 


"  I  wish  to  see  him." 

'*  Who  shall  I  say  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Hendricks,  from  America." 

The  man -showed  him  into  the  drawing 
room.  Brandon  seated  himself  and 
waited.  The  room  was  furnished  in  the 
most  elegant  manner,  most  of  the  furniture 
being  old,  and  all  familiar  to  him.  He 
took  a  hasty  glance  around,  and  closed 
his  eyes  as  if  to  shut  it  all  out  from  sight. 

In  a  short  time  a  man  entered. 

He  appeared  to  be  between  fifty  and 
sixty  years  of  age,  of  medium  size,  broad- 
shouldered  and  stout.  He  had  a  thor- 
oughly plebeian  air ;  he  was  dressed  in 
black,  and  had  a  bunch  of  large  seals 
dangling  from  beneath  his  waistcoat. 
His  face  was  round  and  fleshy,  his  eyes 
were  small,  and  his  head  was  bald.  The 
general  expression  of  his  face  was  that  of 
good-natured  simplicity.  As  he  caught 
sight  of  Brandon  a  frank  smile  of  wel- 
come arose  on  his  broad,  fat  face. 

Brandon  rose  and  bowed. 

"  Am  I  addressing  Mr.  John  Potts  ?  " 

"  You  are,  sir.  John  Potts  of  Potts 
Hall." 

"  Potts  of  Potts  Hall !  "  repeated  Bran- 
don. Then,  drawing  a  card  from  his 
pocket  he  handed  it  to  Potts.  He  had 
procured  some  of  these  in  London.  The 
card  read  as  follows  : 

BEAMISH  &  HENDRICKS, 

Fiour  Merchants  &'  Provision  Dealers^ 

88  Front  Street,  Cincinnati, 

OHIO. 

"  I,  sir,"  said  Brandon,  "  am  Mr.  Hen- 
dricks, junior  partner  in  Beamish  & 
Hendricks,  and  I  hope  you  are  quite 
well." 

"  Very  well,  thank  you,"  answered 
Potts,  smiling  and  sitting  down.  "  I  am 
happy  to  see  you." 


*•«• 

C  ""•">. 

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'•"•MiW--'* 

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iiH;"- "■"-», 

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,  [jj' ■>irwt«*((> 

1 1  '""I own  I 

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;;;,;;:::^::'S'* 

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■■tTMBpinr.  . 

i*l 


I30 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


"  Do  you  keep  your  health,  sir?  " 
"  Thank  you,  I  do,"  said  Potts.    "  A 
touch  of  rheumatism  at  odd  times,  that's 
all." 

Brandon's  manner  was  stiff  and  formal, 
and  his  voice  had  assumed  a  slight  nasal 
intonation.  Potts  had  evidently  looked 
on  him  as  a  perfect  stranger. 

"  I  hope,  sir,  that  I  am  not  taking  up 
your  valuable  time.  You  British  noble- 
men have  your  valuable  time,  I  know,  as 
well  as  we  business  men." 

"  No,  sir,  no,  sir,  not  at  all,"  said  Potts, 
evidently  greatly  delighted  at  being  con- 
sidered a  British  nobleman. 

"  Well,  Sir  John— or  is  it  my  lord  ?  " 
said  Brandon  interrogatively,  correcting 
himself,  and  looking  enquiringly  at  Potts. 
"  Sir  John  '11  do,"  said  Potts. 
"  Well,  Sir  John.  Being  in  England 
on  business,  I  came  to  ask  you  a  few 
questions  about  a  matter  of  some  impor- 
tance to  us." 

"  Proceed,  sir  !  "  said  Potts,  with  great 
dignity. 

"  There's  a  young  man  that  came  into 
our  employ  last  October  whom  we  took 
a  fancy  to,  of  rather  my  senior  did,  and 
we  have  an  idea  of  promoting  him.  My 
senior  thinks  the  world  of  him,  has  the 
young  man  at  his  house,  and  he  is  even 
making  up  to  his  daughter.  He  calls 
himself  Brandon — Frank  Brandon." 

At  this  Potts  started  from  an  easy 
lounging  attitude,  in  which  he  was  trying 
to  "  do "  the  British  noble,  and  with 
startling  intensity  of  gaze  looked  Brandon 
full  in  the  face. 

"  I  think  the  young  man  is  fairish," 
continues  Brandon,  "  but  nothing  extra- 
ordinary. He  is  industrious  and  sober, 
but  he  aint  quick,  and  he  never  had  any 
real  business  experience  till  he  rame  to 
us.  Now,  my  senior  from  the  very  first 
was  infatuated  with  him,  gave  him  a  large 


salary,  and,  in  spite  of  my  warnings  that 
he  ought  to  be  cautious,  he  wants  to 
make  him  head  clerk,  with  an  eye  to 
making  him  partner  next  year.  And  so 
bent  on  this  is  he  that  I  know  he  would 
dissolve  partnership  with  me  if  I  refused, 
take  the  young  man,  let  him  marry  his 
daughter,  and  leave  him  all  his  money 
when  he  dies.  That's  no  small  sum,  for 
old  Mr.  Beamish  is  worth  in  real  estate 
round  Cincinnati  over  two  millions  of 
dollars.  So,  you  see,  I  have  a  right  to 
feel  anxious,  more  especially  as  I  don't 
mind  telling  you.  Sir  John,  who  under- 
stand these  matters,  that  I  thought  I  had 
a  very  good  chance  myself  with  old 
Beamish's  daughter." 

Brandon  spoke  all  this  very  rapidly, 
and  with  the  air  of  one  who  was  trying 
to  conceal  his  feelings  of  dislike  to  the 
clerk  of  whom  he  was  so  jealous.  Potts 
looked  at  him  with  an  encouraging  smile, 
and  asked,  as  he  stopped  : 

"  And  how  did  you  happen  to  hear  of 
me?" 

"  That's  just  what  I  was  coming  to. 
Sir  John ! "  Brandon  drew  his  chair 
nearer,  apparently  in  deep  excitement, 
and  in  a  more  nasal  tone  than  ever,  with 
a  confidential  air,  he  went  on  : 

"  You  see,  I  mistrusted  this  young  man 
who  was  carrying  everything  before  him 
with  a  high  hand,  right  in  my  very  teeth, 
and  I  watched  him.  I  pumped  him  to 
see  if  I  couldn't  get  him  to  tell  some- 
thing about  himself.  But  the  fellow  was 
always  on  his  guard,  and  always  told  the 
same  story.  This  is  what  he  tells :  He 
says  that  his  father  was  Ralph  Brandon 
of  Brandon  Hall,  Devonshire,  and  that  he 
got  very   poor— he  was  ruined,  in  fact, 

by I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir  John,  but 

he  says  it  was  you,  and  that  you  drove 
the  family  away.  They  then  came  over 
to   America,  and  he  got  to  Cincinnati, 


The  ( 

left,  bi 

others 

lie,  an< 

place  £ 

to  find 

when  t 

Pottj 

"We 

giving  \ 

You    s( 

am ! " 


ENQUIRIES 


121 


's  that 
mts  to 
eye  to 
\nd  so 
;  vvouUl 
refused, 
irry  his 

money 
ium,  for 
il  estate 
lions  of 
right  to 

I  don't 
D  undcr- 
rht  1  had 
N\ih    old 

rapidly, 
as  trying 
ke  to  the 
IS.  Potts 
ing  smile, 

,0  hear  of 

aming  to, 
his  ch.air 
Kcitemcnt, 
ever,  with 

oung  man 
efore  him 
rery  teeth, 
ed  him  to 
tell  some- 
fellow  was 
^s  told  the 
tells:  He 
,  Brandon 
nd  that  he 
ed.  in  fact. 
r  John,  hut 
you  drove 
came  over 
Cincinnati. 


The  old  man,  he  says,  died  before  they 
left,  but  he  won't  tell  what  became  of  the 
others.  I  confess  I  believed  it  was  all  a 
lie,  and  didn't  think  there  was  any  such 
place  as  Brandon  Hall,  so  I  determined 
to  find  out ;  naturally  enough.  Sir  John, 
when  two  millions  were  at  stake." 

Potts  winked. 

"  Well,  I  suddenly  found  my  health 
giving  way,  and  had  to  come  to  Europe. 
You  see  what  a  delicate  creature  I 
am ! " 

Potts  laughed  with  intense  glee. 

"And  I  came  here  after  wandering 
about,  trying  to  find  it.  I  heard  at  last 
that  there  was  a  place  that  used  to  be 
Brandon  Hall,  though  most  people  call  it 
Potts  Hall.  Now,  I  thought,  my  fine 
young  man,  I'll  catch  you ;  for  I'll  call  on 
Sir  John  himself  and  ask  him." 

"  You  did  right,  sir,"  said  Potts,  who 
had  taken  an  intense  interest  in  this  nar- 
rative. "  I'm  the  very  man  you  ought  to 
have  come,  to.  I  can  tell  you  all  you 
want.  This  Brandon  is  a  miserable 
swindler." 

"Good  !  I  thougnt  so.  You'll  give 
me  that.  Sir  John,  over  your  own  name, 
will  you?  "cried  Brandon,  in  great  ap- 
parent excitement. 

"  Of  course  I  will,"  said  Potts,  "  and  a 
good  deal  more.  But  tell  me,  first,  what 
that  young  devil  said  as  to  how  he  got  to 
Cincinnati  ?  How  did  he  find  his  way 
there  ?  " 

"  He  would  never  tell." 

"  What  became  of  his  mother  and 
sister?" 

"  He  wouldn't  say." 

"  All  I  know,"  said  Potts,  "  is  this :  I 
got  ofificial  information  that  they  all  died 
at  Quebec." 

Brandon  looked  suddenly  at  the  floor 
and  t^asped.  In  a  moment  he  had 
recovered. 


"  Curse  him  !  then  this  fellow  is  an 
impostor?  " 

"No,"  said  Potts,  "he  must  have 
escaped.  It's  possible.  There  was 
some  confusion  at  Quebec  about 
names." 

"  Then  his  name  may  really  be  Frank 
Brandon  ?  " 

"It  must  be,"  said  Potts.  "Anyhow, 
the  others  are  all  right." 

"  Are  what  ?  " 

"All  right;  dead,  you  know.  That's 
why  he  don't  like  to  tell  you  about  them." 

*'  Well,  now.  Sir  John,  could  you  tell  me 
what  you  know  about  this  young  man, 
since  you  think  he  must  be  the  same 
one  ?  " 

"  I  know  he  must  be,  and  I'll  tell  you 
all  about  him  and  the  whole  cursed  lot. 
In  the  first  place,"  continued  Potts, 
clearing  his  throat,  "old  Brandon  was 
one  of  the  cursedest  old  fools  that  ever 
lived.  He  was  very  well  off,  but  wanted 
to  get  richer,  and  so  he  speculated  in  a 
mine  in  Cornwall.  I  was  acquainted 
with  him  at  the  time  and  used  to  respect 
him.  He  persuaded  me — I  was  always 
off-handed  about  money,  and  a  careless, 
easy  fellow — he  persuaded  me  to  invest 
in  it  also.  I  did  so,  but  at  the  end  of  a 
few  years  I  found  out  that  the  tin  mine 
was  a  rotten  concern,  and  sold  out.  I 
sold  at  a  very  high  price,  for  people 
believed  it  was  a  splendid  property. 
After  this  I  found  another  mine  and 
made  money  hand  over  fist.  I  warned 
old  Brandon,  and  so  did  everybody,  but 
he  didn't  care  a  fig  for  what  we  said,  and 
finally,  one  fine  morning,  he  waked  up 
and  found  himself  ruined. 

"  He  was  more  utterly  ruined  than  any 

man  I  ever  knew  of,  and  all  his  estates 

were  sold.     I   had    made   some  money, 

few  others  in  the  county  had  any  ready 

I  cash,  the  sale  was  forced,  and  I  bought 


■  ■  ■  ■  •  *«• 

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»l'- Willi 

'f'-'.ll'""'! 
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H    il 

m ■"•"'"'"•jr 


.i:::,c::: 

I;;.J1 J 

'  '■•»■!■    ««.<IKUk 


123 


CORD   AND  CREESE 


the  whole  establishment  at  a  remarkably 
low  figure.  I  got  old  Brandy— Brandy 
was  a  nickname  I  gave  the  old  fellow — 
I  got  him  a  house  in  the  village,  and 
supported  him  for  a  while  with  his  wife 
and  daughter  and  his  great  lubberly  boy. 
I  soon  found  out  what  vipers  they  were. 
They  all  turned  against  their  benefactor, 
and  dared  to  say  that  I  had  ruined  their 
father.  In  fact,  my  only  fault  was  buy- 
ing the  place,  and  that  was  an  advantage 
to  old  Brandy  rather  than  an  injury. 
It  shows,  though,  what  human  nature 
is. 

"  They  all  got  sick  at  last,  and  as  they 
had  no  one  to  nurse  them,  I  very  con- 
siderately sent  them  ?11  to  the  alms- 
house, where  they  had  good  beds,  good 
attendance,  and  plenty  to  eat  and  drink. 
No  matter  what  I  did  for  them  they 
abused  me.  They  reviled  me  for  send- 
ing them  to  a  comfortable  home,  and 
old  Brandy  was  the  worst  of  all.  I  used 
to  go  and  visit  him  two  or  three  times 
a  day,  and  he  always  cursed  me.  Old 
Brandy  did  get  awfully  profane,  that's 
a  fact.  The  reason  was  his  infernal 
pride.  Look  at  me,  now!  I'm  not 
proud.  Put  me  in  the  almshouse,  and 
:  curse  you  ?  I  hope  not. 
last  old  Brandy  died,  and  of 
I  had  to  look  out  for  the  family. 
They  seemed  thrown  on  my  hands,  you 
know,  and  I  was  too  good-natured  to  let 
them  suffer,  although  they  treated  me 
so  abominably.  The  best  thing  I  could 
think  of  was  to  ship  them  all  off  to 
America,  where  they  could  all  get  rich. 
So  I  took  them  to  Liverpool." 

"  Did  they  want  to  go  ?  " 

"  They  didn't  seem  to  have  an  idea 
in  their  heads.  They  looked  and  acted 
just  like  three  born  fools." 

"  Strange ! " 

"  I  let  a  friend  of  mine  see  about  them, 


would 

"At 

course 


as  I  had  considerable  to  do,  and  he  got 
them  a  passage." 

"  I  suppose  you  paid  their  way  out." 

"  I  did,  sir,"  said  Potts,  with  an  air 
of  munificence ;  "  but,  between  you  and 
me,  it  didn't  cost  much." 

"  I  should  think  it  must  have  cost  a 
considerable  sum." 

'•  Oh,  no  !  Clark  saw  to  that.  Clark 
got  them  places  as  steerage  pas- 
sengers." 

"Young  Brandon  told  me  once  that 
he  came  out  as  cabin  passenger." 

"  That's  his  cursed  pride.  He  went 
out  in  the  steerage,  and  a  devilish  hard 
time  he  had  too." 

"Why?" 

"  Oh,  he  was  a  little  crowded,  I  think ! 
There  were  six  hundred  emigrants  on 
board  the  Tecumseh " 

"The  what?" 

"  The  Tecumseh.  Clark  did  that 
business  neatly.  Each  passenger  had  to 
take  his  own  provisions,  so  he  supplied 
them  with  a  lot.  Now  what  do  you 
think  he  gave  them  ?  " 

"  I  can't  imagine." 

"  He  bought  them  some  damaged 
bread  at  one-quarter  the  usual  price. 
It  was  all  mouldy,  you  know,"  said  Potts, 
trying  to  make  Brandon  see  the  joke. 
"  I  declaie  Clark  and  I  roared  over  it 
for  a  couple  of  months,  thinking  how 
surprised  they  must  have  been  when 
they  sat  down  to  eat  their  first  dinner." 

"  That  was  very  neat,"  replied  Brandon. 

"  They  were  all  sick  when  they  left, " 
said  Potts ;  "  but  before  they  got  to 
Quebec  they    vere  sicker,   I'll  bet." 

"  Why  so  ?  ' 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  ship  fever  ? " 
said  Potts,  in  a  low  voice  which  sent  a 
sharp  thrill  through  every  fibre  of  Bran- 
don's being.  He  could  only  nod  his 
head. 


ENQUIRIES 


123 


"Well,  the  Tecumseh,  with  her  six 
hundred  passengers,  afforded  an  uncom- 
mon fine  field  for  the  ship  fever.  That's 
what  I  was  going  to  observe.  They  had 
a  great  time  at  Quebec  last  summer ; 
but  it  was  unanimously  voted  that  the 
Tcctimseh  was  the  worst  ship  of  the  lot. 
I  sent  out  an  agent  to  see  what  had  be- 
come of  my  three  friends,  and  he  came 
back  and  told  me  all.  He  said  that 
about  four  hundred  of  the  Tecumseh' s 
passengers  died  during  the  voyage,  and 
ever  so  many  more  after  landing.  He 
obtained  a  list  of  the  dead  from  the 
quarantine  records,  and  among  them 
were  those  of  these  three  Brandons. 
Yes,  they  joined  old  Cognac  pretty 
soon— lovely  and  pleasant  in  their  lives, 
and  in  death  not  divided.  But  this 
young  devil  that  you  speak  of  must 
have  escaped.  I  dare  say  he  did,  for 
tlie  confusion  was  awful." 

"  But  couldn't  there  have  been  another 
son  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  There  was  another  son,  the 
eldest,  the  worst  of  the  whole  lot,  so 
infernally  bad  that  even  old  Brandy  him- 
self couldn't  stand  it,  but  packed  him  off 
to  Botany  Bay.  It's  well  he  went  of  his 
own  accord,  for  if  he  hadn't  the  law 
would  have  sent  him  there  at  last,  trans- 
ported for  life." 

"  Perhaps  this  man  is  the  same  one." 

"  Oh,  no.    This  eldest  Brandy  is  dead." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  " 

"  Certain — best  authority.  A  business 
friend  of  mine  was  in  the  same  ship  with 
him.  Brandy  was  coming  home  to  see 
his  friends.  He  fell  overboard  and  my 
friend  saw  him  drown.  It  was  in  the 
Indian  Ocean." 

"  When  was  that  ?  " 

"  Last  September." 

"  Oh,  then  this  one  must  be  the  other 
of  course ! " 


"  No  doubt  of  that,  I  think,"  said  Potts 
cheerily. 

Brandon  rose.  "  I  feel  much  obliged. 
Sir  John,"  said  he  stiffly,  and  with  his 
usual  nasal  tone,  "  for  your  kindness. 
This  is  just  w'  at  I  want.  I'll  put  a  stop 
to  my  young  man's  game.  It's  worth 
coming  to  England  to  find  out  this." 

"  Well,  when  you  walk  him  out  of  your 
office,  give  him  my  respects  and  tell  him 
I'd  be  very  happy  to  see  him.  For  I 
would,  you  know.    I  really  would." 

'♦  I'll  tell  him  so,"  said  Brandon,  "and 
if  he  is  alive  perhaps  he'll  come  here." 

'•  Ha !  ha !  ha  ! "  roared  Potts. 

"  Ha !  ha  ! "  laughed  Brandon,  and 
pretending  not  to  see  Potts'  outstretched 
hand,  he  bowed  and  left.  He  walked 
rapidly  down  the  avenue.  He  /elt  stifled. 
The  horrors  that  had  been  revealed  to 
him  had  been  but  in  part  anticipated. 
Could  there  be  anything  worse  ? 

He  left  the  gates  and  walked  quickly 
away,  he  knew  not  where.  Turning  into 
a  by-path  he  went  up  a  hill  and  finally 
sat  down.  Brandon  Hall  lay  not  far 
away.  In  front  was  the  village  and  the 
sea  beyond  it.  All  the  time  there  was 
but  one  train  of  thoughts  in  his  mind. 
His  wrongs  took  shape  and  framed  them- 
selves into  a  few  sharply  defined  ideas. 
He  muttered  to  himself  over  and  over  the 
things  that  were  in  his  mind :  "  Myself 
disinherited  and  exiled  !  My  father  ruined 
and  broken-hearted  !  My  father  killed ! 
My  mother,  brother,  and  sister  banished, 
starved,  and  murdered  ! " 

He,  too,  as  far  as  Potts'  will  was  con- 
cerned, had  been  slain.  He  was  alone 
and  had  no  hope  that  any  of  his  family 
could  survive.  Now,  as  he  sat  there 
alone,  he  needed  to  make  his  plans  for 
the  future.  One  thing  stood  out  promi- 
nently before  him,  which  was  that  he 
must  go  immediately  to  Quebec  to  find 


-...! 

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134 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


1 
I 


»te 


'.(!'    !-!      I 


out  finally  and  absolutely  the  fate  of  the 
family. 

Then  could  anything  else  be  done  in 
England  ?  He  thought  over  the  names 
of  those  who  had  been  the  most  intimate 
friends  of  his  father — Thornton,  Lan- 
ghetti,  Despard.  Thornton  had  neglected 
his  father  in  his  hour  of  need.  He  had 
merely  sent  a  clerk  to  make  enquiries 
after  all  was  over.  The  elder  Langhetti, 
Brandon  knew,  was  dead.  Where  were 
the  others?  None  of  them,  at  any  rate, 
had  interfered. 

There  remained  the  family  of  Despard. 
Brandon  was  aware  that  the  colonel  had 
a  brother  in  the  army,  but  where  he  was  he 
knew  not  nor  did  he  care.  If  he  chose  to 
look  in  the  army  register  he  might  very 
easily  find  out ;  but  why  should  he  ?  He 
had  never  known  or  heard  much  of  him 
in  any  way. 

There  remained  Courtenay  Despard, 
the  son  of  Lionel,  he  to  whom  the  MS.  of 
the  dead  might  be  considered  after  all  as 
chiefly  devolving.  Of  him  Brandon  knew 
absolutely  nothing,  not  even  whether  he 
was  alive  or  dead. 

For  a  lime  he  discussed  the  question  in 
his  mind  whether  it  might  not  be  well  to 
seek  him  out  so  as  to  show  him  his 
father's  fate  and  gain  his  co-operation. 
But  after  a  few  moments'  consideration 
he  dismissed  this  thought.  Why  should 
he  seek  his  help  ?  Courtenay  Despard, 
if  alive,  might  be  very  unfit  for  the  pur- 
pose. He  might  be  timid,  or  indifferent, 
or  dull,  or  indolent.  Why  make  any  ad- 
vances to  one  whom  he  did  not  know  ? 
Afterward  it  might  be  well  to  find  him, 
and  to  see  what  might  be  done  with  or 
through  him  ;  but  as  yet  there  could  be 
no  reason  whatever  why  he  should  take 
up  his  time  searching  for  him  or  in  win- 
ning his  confidence. 

The  end  of  it  all  was  that  he  concluded 


whatever  he  did  to  do  it  by  himself,  with 
no  human  being  as  his  confidant. 

Only  one  or  two  persons  in  all  the 
world  knew  that  he  was  alive,  and  they 
were  not  capable,  under  any  circum- 
stances, of  betraying  him.  And  where 
now  was  Beatrice  ?  In  the  power  of  this 
man  whom  Brandon  had  just  left.  Had 
she  seen  him  as  he  came  and  went  ? 
Had  she  heard  his  voice  as  he  spoke 
in  that  assumed  tone  ?  But  Brandon 
found  it  necessary  to  crush  down  all 
thoughts  of  her. 

One  thing  gave  him  profound  satisfac- 
tion, and  this  was  that  Potts  did  not  sus- 
pect him  for  an  instant.  And  now  how 
could  he  deal  with  Potts  ?  The  man  had 
become  wealthy  and  powerful.  To  cope 
with  him  needed  wealth  and  power.  How 
could  Brandon  obtain  these  }  At  the  ut- 
most he  could  only  count  upon  the  fifteen 
thousand  pounds  which  Compton  would 
remit.  This  would  be  as  nothing  to  help 
him  against  his  enemy.  He  had  written 
to  Compton  that  he  had  fallen  overboard 
and  been  picked  up,  and  had  toUl  the 
same  to  the  London  agents  under  the 
strictest  secrecy,  so  as  to  be  able  to  get 
the  money  which  he  needed.  Yet  after 
he  got  it  all,  what  would  be  the  benefit? 
First  of  all,  wealth  was  necessary. 

Now  more  than  ever  there  came  to  his 
mind  the  ancestral  letter  which  his  father 
had  enclosed  to  him — the  message  from 
old  Ralph  Brandon  in  the  treasure  ship. 
It  was  a  wild,  mad  hope  ;  but  was  it  un 
attainable?  This  he  felt  was  now  the 
one  object  that  lay  before  him  ;  this  must 
first  be  sought  after,  and  nothing  else 
could  be  attempted  or  even  thought  of  till 
it  had  been  tried.  If  he  failed,  then  other 
things  might  be  considered. 

Sitting  there  on  his  lonely  height,  in 
sight  of  his  ancestral  home,  he  took  out 
his  father's  last  letter  and  read  it  again, 


THE    DKAD    ALIVE 


Itg 


iself,  with 

t. 

in  all  the 

and  they 
J  circuni- 
nd  where 
ver  of  this 
left.  Had 
,nd  went  r 

he  spoke 
t  Brandon 

down  all 

k1  satisfac- 
lid  not  sus- 
:l  now  how 
le  man  had 
I.     To  cope 
)wer.    How 
At  the  ut- 
n  the  fifteen 
ipton  would 
ling  to  help 
lad  written 
n  overboard 
id   told   the 
under  the 
able  to  get 
Yet  after 
he  benefit? 
iary. 

ame  to  his 
|h  his  father 
issage  from 
lasure  ship. 
was  it  i;n 
ls  now  the 
this  must 
lothing  else 
light  of  till 
,  then  other 

height,  in 
le  took  out 
id  it  again, 


after  which  he  once  more  read  the  old 
message  from  the  treasure  ship : 

"One  league  due  northe  of  a  smalle 
islet  northe  of  y"  Islet    of  Santa  Cruz, 

northe  of   San    Salvador 1   Ralphe 

Brandon  in  my  shippe  Phoenix  am   be- 
calmd    and    surrounded    by    a    Spanish 

I'lcete My  shippe  is  filld  with  spoyle 

the  Plunder  of  HI  galleons  wealthe 

w**  niyghte  purchasse  a   kyngdom 

tresure  equalle  to  an  Empyr's  revenue 

Gold    and    jewelcs    in    countless 

store and   God   forbydde  that  itt 

shall  falle  into  y**  hands  of  y«  Enemye 

1  therefore  Ralphe  Brandon  out  of 

mine  cwne  good  wyl  and  intente  and 


that  of  alle  my  men   sink  this  shippe 

rather  than  be  taken  alyve  I  send 

this  by  my  trusty  seaman   Peter  Leggit 
who  with  IX  others  tolde  off  by  lot  will 

irye  to  escape  in  y**  Boate  by  nighte 

If  this  Cometh  haply  into  yo  hands  of  my 
Sonne  Philij)  let  him  herebye  knowe  that 

in  this  place  is  all  this  tresure w^ 

haply  may  yet   be  gatherd  from  y"  sea 

y"   Islet  is   knowne   by   III   rockes 

that  be  pushed  up  like  III  needles  from 
yo  sande 

"  Ralphe  Brandon." 

Five  days  afterward  Brandon,  with  his 
Hindu  servant,  was  sailing  out  of  the 
Mersey  River  on  his  way  to  Quebec. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


THE    DEAD    ALIVE 


It  was  early  in  the  month  of  August 
when  Brandon  visited  the  quarantine 
station  at  Gosse  Island,  Quebec.  A  low, 
wooden  building  stood  near  the  landing, 
with  a  sign  over  the  door  containing  only 
the  word  "OFFICE."  To  this  building 
Brandon  directed  his  steps.  On  entering 
he  saw  only  one  clerk  there. 

"  Are  you  ihe  superintendent  ? "  he 
asked,  bowing  courteously. 

"  No,"  said  the  clerk.  "  He  is  in 
Quebec  just  uow." 

"  Perhaps  you  can  give  me  the  infor- 
mation that  I  want." 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  sent  to  enquire  after 
some  passengers  that  came  out  here  last 
year." 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  can  tell  all  that  can  be 
tokl,"  said  the  clerk  readily.     "  We  have 


the  registration  books  here,  and  you  are 
at  liberty  to  look  up  any  names  you  wish. 
Step  this  way,  please."  And  he  led  the 
way  to  an  inner  office. 

"What  year  did  they  come  out  in?" 
asked  the  clerk. 

"  Last  year." 

"  Last  year — an  awful  year  to  look  up. 
1846 — yes,  here  is  the  book  for  that  year  — 
a  year  which  you  are  aware  was  an  un- 
paralleled one." 

"I  have  heard  so." 

"  Do  you  know  the  name  of  the  ship  ?  " 

"  The  Tecumseh." 

"  The  Tecumseh/  "  exclaimed  the  clerk, 
with  a  startled  look.  "  That  is  an  awful 
name  in  our  records.  I  am  sorry  you 
have  not  another  name  to  examine,  for 
the  Tecumseh  was  the  worst  of  all." 

Brandon  bowed. 


c r 

■«: "•> 

ft -.► 

* Jt,, 

■ft ' 


''■Hill..  il„|, 


J> 


.f,r 


..,'t.„J 


136 


CORD   AND   CREESE 


Ik  " 


"  The  Tecumseh"  continurd  the  clerk, 
turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  book  as  it 
lay  on  the  desk  ;  "  the  Tecumseh,  from 
Liverpool,  sailed  June  2,  arrived  August 
10.  Here  you  see  the  names  of  those 
who  died  at  sea,  copied  from  the  ship's 
books,  and  those  who  died  on  shore.  It 
is  a  frightful  mortality.  Would  you  like 
to  look  over  the  list?  " 

Brandon  bowed  and  advanced  to  the 
desk. 

"  The  deaths  on  board  ship  show 
whether  they  were  seamen  or  passengers, 
and  the  passengers  are  marked  as  cabin 
and  steerage.  But  after  landing  it  was 
impossible  to  keep  an  account  of  classes." 

Brandon  carefully  ran  his  eye  down  the 
long  list,  and  read  each  name.  Those  for 
which  he  looked  did  not  appear.  At  last 
he  came  to  the  list  of  those  who  had  died 
on  shore.  After  reading  a  few  names  his 
eye  was  arrested  by  one  : 

"  Brandon,  Elizabeth." 

It  was  his  mother.  He  read  on.  He 
soon  came  to  another : 

"  Brandon,  Edith"    It  was  his  sister. 

"  Do  you  find  any  of  the  names  ? " 
asked  the  clerk,  seeing  Brandon  turn  his 
head. 

"  Yes,"  said  Brandon  ;  "  this  is  one," 
and  he  pointed  to  the  last  name.  "  But 
I  see  a  mark  opposite  that  name.  What 
is  it  ?  •  B '  and  '  A.'  What  is  the  mean- 
ing?" 

"  Is  that  party  a  relative  of  yours  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Brandon. 

"You  don't  mind  hearing  something 
horrible,  then  ?  " 

••  No." 

The  clerk  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Well,  sir,  those  letters  were  written 
by  the  late  superintendent.  The  poor 
man  is  now  a  lunatic.  He  was  here  last 
year. 

"You  see  this  is  how  it  was:    The 


ship  fever  broke  out.  The  number  of 
sick  was  awful,  and  there  were  no  prepa- 
rations for  them  hi.re.  The  disease  in 
some  respects  was  worse  than  cholera, 
and  there  was  nothing  but  confusion. 
Very  many  died  from  lack  of  nursing 
But  the  worst  feature  of  the  whole  thing 
was  the  hurried  burials. 

"  I  was  not  here  last  year,  and  all  who 
were  iiere  then  have  left.  But  I've  heard 
enough  to  make  me  sick  with  horror. 
You  perhaps  are  aware  that  in  this  sliip 
fever  there  sometimes  occurs  a  total  loss 
of  sense,  which  is  apt  to  be  mistaken  for 
death?" 

The  clerk  paused.  Brandon  regarded 
him  steadily  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
turned,  and  looked  earnestly  at  the  bool<. 

"  The  burials  were  very  hastily  made." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  And  it  is  now  believed  that  some 
were  buried  in  a  state  of  trance." 

"Buried  alive?" 

"  Buried  alive ! " 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Brandon's 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  book.  At  last  he 
pointed  to  the  name  of  Edith  Brandon. 

"  Then,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  in  a  steady 
voice,  which,  however,  was  in  a  changed 
key,  "  these  letters  '  B  '  and  *  A  '  are  in- 
tended to  mean  something  of  that  de- 
scription ?  " 

"  Something  of  that  sort,"  replied  the 
clerk. 

Brandon  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  But  there  is  no  certainty  about  it  in 
this  particular  case.  I  will  tell  you  how 
these  marks  happened  to  be  made.  Tiie 
clerk  that  was  here  last  told  me. 

"  One  morning,  according  to  him,  the 
superintendent  came  in,  looking  very 
much  excited  and  altered.  He  went  to 
his  book,  where  the  entries  of  burials  had 
been  made  on  the  preceding  evening. 
This    name   was    third    from  the  last, 


lii 


THE    DEAP    ALIVE 


127 


imbcr  of 
10  prcp.i. 
iseasc  in 

cholera, 
onfusiun. 

nursinj; 
ole  thing 

d  all  who 
I've  heard 
h  horror, 
this  ship 
,  total  loss 
stakeik  for 

I  regarded 

Then   he 

;  the  book. 

ily  made." 

that  some 
e." 


Brandon's 
At  last  he 
•ran  don. 
|in  a  steady 
a  changed 
A '  are  in- 
»f  that  de- 
replied  the 


J  about  it  in 
[ll  you  how 

mde.    The 

ke. 

|to  him,  the 

^king    very 
le  went  to 

jurials  had 

|g  evening. 
the  last. 


Twelve  had  been  buried.  He  pencilled 
ili(!sc  letters  there  and  left.  People  did 
not  notice  hirn  ;  everybody  was  sick  or 
busy.  At  last  in  the  evening  of  the  next 
(lay,  when  they  were  to  bury  a  new  lot, 
tlicy  found  the  superintendent  digging  at 
tlu:  grave  the  third  from  the  last.  They 
tried  to  stop  him,  but  he  shouted  and 
moaned  alternately  '  Buried  alive ! ' 
•  IJuried  alive  ! '  In  fact  they  saw  that 
he  was  crazy,  and  had  to  confine  him 
at  once." 

"  Did  they  examine  the  grave  ?  " 

"  Yes.  The  woman  told  my  prede- 
cessor that  she  and  her  husband— -who 
did  the  burying — had  examined  it,  and 
found  the  body  not  only  dead,  but  cor- 
rupt. So  there's  no  doubt  of  it.  That 
party  must  have  been  dead  at  any  rate." 

"  Who  was  the  woman  ?  " 

"  An  old  woman  that  laid  them  out. 
Slie  and  her  husband  buried  them." 

"  Where  is  she  now  ?  " 

"  I  doi^'t  know." 

"  Does  she  stay  here  yet  ?  " 

"No.    She  left  last  year." 

"  What  became  of  the  superintend- 
ent?" 

"  He  was  taken  home,  but  grew  no 
better.  At  last  he  had  to  be  sent  to  an 
asylum.  Some  examination  was  made 
by  the  authorities,  but  nothing  ever  came 
of  it.  The  papers  made  no  mention  of 
the  affair,  and  it  was  hushed  up." 

Brandon  read  on.  At  last  he  came  to 
another  name.  It  was  simply  this : 
"  Brandon."  There  was  a  slight  move- 
ment on  the  clerk's  part  as  Brandon 
came  to  this  name.  "  There  is  no  Christ- 
ian name  here,"  said  Brandon.  "  I  sup- 
pose they  did  not  know  it." 

"  Well,"  said  the  clerk,  "  there's  some- 
thing peculiar  about  that.  The  former 
clerk  never  mentioned  it  to  anybody  but 
me.    That  man  didn't  die  at  all." 


"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Brandon, 
who  could  scarcely  speak  for  the  tre- 
mendous, struggle  between  hope  and  de- 
spair that  was  going  on  within  him. 

"It's  a  false  entry." 

"How?" 

"  The  superintendent  wrote  that.  See, 
the  handwriting  Is  different  from  the 
others.  One  is  that  of  the  clerk  who 
made  all  these  entries;  the  other  is  the 
superintendent's." 

Brandon  looked  and  saw  that  this  was 
the  case. 

"  What  was  the  cause  of  that  ?  " 

"  The  clerk  told  me  that  after  making 
these  next  fifteen  entries  of  buried 
parties — buried  the  evening  after  these 
last  twelve — he  went  away  to  see  about 
something.  When  he  came  back  the 
next  morning  this  name  was  written  in 
the  superintendent's  hand.  He  did  not 
know  what  to  think  of  it,  so  he  concluded 
to  ask  the  superintendent ;  but  in  the 
course  of  the  day  he  heard  that  he  was 
mad  and  in  confinement,  as  I  have  told 
you." 

"  Then  you  mean  that  this  is  not  an 
entry  of  a  death  at  all." 

"  Yes.  The  fact  is,  the  superintendent 
for  some  reason  got  it  into  his  head  that 
this  Brandon" — and  he  pointed  to  Edith's 
name — "  had  been  buried  alive.  He 
brooded  over  the  name,  and  among  other 
things  wrote  it  down  here  at  the  end  of 
the  list  for  the  day.  That's  the  way  in 
which  my  predecessor  accounted  for  it." 

"  It  is  a  very  natural  one,"  said  Bran- 
don. 

"  Quite  so.  The  clerk  let  it  stand. 
You  see,  if  he  had  erased  it,  he  might 
have  been  overhauled,  and  there  would 
have  been  a  committee.  He  was  afraid 
of  that ;  he  thought  it  bi-tter  to  say  noth- 
ing about  it.  He  wouldn't  have  told  me, 
only  he  said  that  a  party  came  here  once 


■■-"-•...ml. 

■*"«~«.»»I 

........... .I.,! 

il XJ: 

\ . 

1                **■     , 

....    ■■"'«. 

I'-J 

™..««'' 

,li!  J*'»M«I 


■■    ^.,„r 

,.'l J 

it.t..-""''*'^ 

•MW* 

■■"ruditMir 


128 


CORD   AND    CREESE 


:^  ::: 


for  a  list  of  all  the  dead  of  the  Teciimseh, 
and  he  copied  all  out,  including  this 
doubtful  one.  He  thought  that  he  had 
done  wrong,  and  therefore  told  me,  so 
that  if  any  particular  enquiries  were  ever 
made  I  might  know  what  to  say." 

"  Are  there  many  mistakes  in  these 
records  ? " 

"I  dare  say  there  are  a  good  many  in 
the  list  for  1846.  There  was  so  much 
confusion  that  names  got  changed,  and 
people  died  whose  names  could  only  be 
conjectured  by  knowing  who  had  re- 
covered. As  some  of  those  that  recovered 
or  had  not  been  sick  slipped  away 
secretly,  of  course  there  was  inaccuracy." 

Brciiidon  had  nothing  more  to  ask. 
He  thanked  the  clerk  and  departed. 

There  was  a  faint  hope,  then,  that 
Frank  might  yet  be  alive.  On  his  way 
up  to  Quebec  he  decided  what  to  do. 
As  soon  as  he  arrived  he  inserted  an 
advertisement  in  the  chief  papers  to  the 
following  effect : 

NOTICE ! 

I NFORM ATION  of  anyone  of  the  name  of  "  BRAN- 
DON," who  came  out  in  the  ship  Tecumseh  in  1846, 
from  Liverpool  to  Quebec,  is  earnestly  desired  by 
friends  of  the  family.  A  liberal  reward  will  be  given 
to  anyone  who  can  give  the  above  information.  Ap- 
ply to  Henry  Peters, 

22  Place  d'Annes, 

Brandon  waited  in  Quebec  six  weeks 
without  any  result.  He  then  went  to 
Montreal  and  inserted  the  same  notice  in 
the  papers  there,  and  in  other  towns  in 
Canada,  giving  his  Montreal  address. 
Aftet  waiting  five  or  six  weeks  in  Mon- 
treal he  went  to  Toronto,  and  advertised 
again,  giving  his  new  address.  He 
waited  here  tor  some  time,  till  at  length 
the  month  of  November  began  to  draw 
to  a  closi-.  \\o\  yet  despondent,  he 
began  to  fom  a  plan  for  advertising  in 
every  ci'^^y  of  the   United   States. 


Meanwhile  he  had  receive  many  com- 
munications, all  of  which,  however,  were 
made  with  the  vague  hope  of  getting  a 
reward.  None  were  at  all  reliable.  At 
length  he  thought  that  it  was  useless  to 
wait  any  longer  in  Canada,  and  con- 
cluded to  go  to  New  York  as  a  center 
of  action. 

He  arrived  in  New  York  at  the  end  of 
December,  and  immediately  began  to 
insert  his  notices  in  all  parts  of  the  coun- 
try, giving  his  address  at  the  Aster 
House. 

One  day,  as  he  came  in  from  the  street, 
he  was  informed  that  there  was  someone 
in  his  room  who  wished  to  see  him.  He 
went  up  calmly,  thinking  that  it  was  some 
new  pers  jn  with  intelligence. 

On  entering  the  room  he  saw  a  man 
standing  by  the  window,  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, dressed  in  coarse  clothes.  The 
man  was  very  tall,  broad-shouldered,  with 
large  Roman  features,  and  heavy  beard 
and  mustache.  His  face  was  marked  l^y 
profound  dejection  ;  he  looked  like  one 
whose  whole  life  had  been  one  long  mis- 
fortune. Louis  Brandon  had  never  seen 
any  face  which  bore  so  deep  an  impress 
of  suffering. 

The  stranger  turned  as  he  came  in 
and  looked  at  him  with  his  sad  eyes 
earnestly. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  which  thrilled 
through  Brandon,  "  are  you  Henry 
Peters  ?  " 

A  strange  feeling  passed  over  Brandon. 
He  stepped  forward. 

"  Frank  ! "  he  cried,  in  a  broken  voice. 

"  Merciful  Heavens  !  "  cried  the  other. 
"  Have  you  too  come  up  from  the  dead? 
Louis!" 

In  this  r^jeeting  between  the  two 
brothers,  after  so  many  eventful  years  of 
separation,  each  had  much  to  tell.  Kndi 
had  a  story  so  marvellous  that  the  other 


FRANK  S   STORY 


might  have  doubted  it,  had  not  the 
marvels  of  his  own  experience  been 
equally  great.     Frank's  story,  however,  is 


129 


the  only  one  that  the  reader  will  care 
to  hear,  and  that  must  be  reserved  for 
another  chapter. 


CHAPTER  XX 


FRANK'S  STORY 


"  After  you  left,"  said  Frank,  "  all 
went  to  confusion.  Potts  lorded  it  with 
a  higher  hand  than  ever,  and  my  father 
was  more  than  ever  infatuated,  and 
seemed  to  feel  that  it  was  necessary  to 
justify  his  harshness  toward  you  by 
publicly  exhibiting  a  greater  confidence 
in  Potts.  Like  a  thoroughly  vulgar  and 
base  nature,  this  man  could  not  be  con- 
tent with  having  the  power,  but  loved  to 
exhibit  that  power  to  us.  Life  to  me  for 
years  became  one  long  death  ;  a  hundred 
times  I  would  have  turned  upon  the 
scoundrel  and  taken  vengeance  for  our 
wronj^s.  but  the  tears  of  my  mother 
forced  me  to  use  self-control.  You  had 
been  driven  off;  I  alone  was  left,  and  she 
implored  me  by  my  love  for  her  to  stand 
by  lier.  I  wished  her  to  take  her  own 
little  property  and  go  with  me  and  Edith 
where  we  might  all  live  in  seclusion 
together ;  but  this  she  would  not  do  for 
fear  of  staining  the  proud  Brandon  name. 

"  Potts  grew  worse  and  worse  every 
year.  There  was  a  loathsome  son  of  his 
whom  he  used  to  bring  with  him,  and 
my  father  was  infatuated  enough  to  treat 
the  younger  devil  with  the  same  civility 
which  he  sht  ved  to  the  elder  one.  Poor 
father !  he  really  believed,  as  he  after- 
ward told  me,  that  these  nen  were  put- 
ting millions  of  money  in  his  hands,  and 
that  he  would  be  the  Beckford  of  h.s 
generation. 


"  After  a  while  another  scoundrel,  called 
Clark,  appeared,  who  was  simply  the 
counterpart  of  Potts.  Of  this  man  some- 
thing very  singular  was  soon  made  known 
to  me. 

"One  day  I  was  sLroUing  through  the 
grounds  when  suddenly,  as  I  passed 
throujjh  a  grove  which  stood  by  a  fish- 
pond, I  beard  voices  and  saw  the  two 
men  I  hated  most  of  all  on  earth  standing 
near  me.  They  were  both  naked.  They 
had  the  audacity  to  go  bathing  in  the 
fish-pond.  Clark  had  his  back  turned 
toward  me,  and  I  saw  on  it,  below  the 
neck,  three  marks,  fiery  red,  as  though 
they  had  been  made  by  a  brand.  They 
were  these  ;  "  and  taking  a  pencil  Frank 
made  the  following  marks  : 


+ 


Louis  looked  at  this  with  intense  excite- 
ment. 
"  You  have  been  in  New  South  Wales," 


,,;„'3iil-..w» 

!• iUl. 

'>  ••<ii«tiii«nh||, 
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IjllBi  ."»•-,. 

'■l.f.i„„„,,P 
"l'|.H~.lHMi,J 

! 'jl"— '' 

'••LiiiiiAin.,,, 

I. i !!■ 


I  WH**" 


iiii::.,; 


-••Iiliiji Hu"" 

'' ""\ 


: ^':>' 

,.,'i..„j 

lull.  ufimiUn 

l"ilH«t 

ii,::;:"*!"* 

iwhuiwh 

"••"■••iutt!, , 


130 


CORD    AND    CREESE 


i 


:  « 


'I! 


ill 


«,   .1. 


said  Frank,  "  and  perhaps  know  whether 
it  is  true  or  not  that  these  are  brands  on 
convicts?" 

"  It  is  true,  and  on  convicts  of  the  very 
worst  kind." 

"  Do  you  know  what  they  mean  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

••  What  ?  " 

"Only  the  worst  are  branded  with  a 
single  mark,  so  you  may  imagine  what  a 
triple  mark  indicates.  But  I  will  tell  you 
the  meaning  of  each.  Ihe  first  (/]^)  is 
the  king's  mark,  put  on  those  who  are 
totally  irreclaimable  and  insubordinate. 
The  second  (  |^)  means  runaway,  and 
is  put  on  those  who  have  attempted  to 
escape.  The  third  (-{-)  indicates  a 
murderous  attack  on  the  guards.  When 
they  are  not  hung,  they  are  branded  with 
this  mark ;  and  those  who  are  branded 
in  this  way  are  condemned  to  hard  work, 
in  cnains,  for  life." 

"  That's  about  what  I  supposed,"  said 
Frank  quietly,  "only  of  course  you  are 
more  particular.  After  seeing  this  I  told 
my  father.  He  refused  to  believe  me.  I 
determined  to  bring  matters  to  a  crisis, 
and  charged  Potts,  in  my  father's  pres- 
ence, with  associating  with  a  branded 
felon.  Potts  at  once  turned  upon  me 
and  appealed  to  my  father's  sense  of 
justice.  He  accused  me  of  being  so  far 
carried  away  by  prejudice  as  not  to  hesi- 
tate to  invent  a  foul  slander  against  an 
honest  man.  He  said  that  Clark  would 
be  willing  to  be  put  to  any  test ;  he  could 
not,  however,  ask  him  to  expose  himself — 
it  was  too  outrageous — but  would  simply 
assert  that  my  charge  was  false. 

"  My  father  as  usual  believed  every 
word  and  gave  me  a  stern  reprimand. 
Louis,  in  the  presence  of  ly  mother  and 
sister  I  cursed  my  father  on  that  day. 
Poor  man  !  the  blow  soon  fell.  It  was  in 
1845  that  the  crash  came.    I   have  not 


the  heart  to  go  into  details  now.  I  will 
tell  you  from  time  to  time  hereafter.  It  is 
enough  to  say  that  every  penny  was  lost. 
We  had  to  leave  the  Hall  and  took  a 
little  cottage  in  the  village. 

"  All  our  old  friends  and  acquaintances 
stood  aloof.  My  father's  oldest  friends 
never  came  near  him.  Old  Langhetti  was 
dead.  His  son  knew  nothing  about  this. 
I  will  tell  you  more  of  him  presently. 

"  Colonel  Lionel  Despard  was  dead. 
His  son,  Courtenay,  was  ignorant  of  all 
this,  and  was  away  in  the  North  of  Eng- 
land. There  was  Thornton,  and  I  can't 
account  for  his  inaction.  He  married 
Langhetti's  daughter  too.  That  is  a 
mypiery." 

"They  are  all  false,  Frank." 

Frank  looked  up  with  something  like  a 
smile. 

"  No,  not  all ;  wait  till  you  hear  me 
through." 

Frank  drew  a  long  breath.  "  We  got 
sick  there,  and  Potts  had  us  taken  to  the 
almshouse.  There  we  all  prayed  for 
death,  but  only  my  father's  prayer  was 
heard.  He  died  of  a  broken  heart.  The 
rest  of  us  lived  on. 

"Scarcely  had  my  father  been  buried 
when  Potts  came  to  take  us  away.  He 
insisted  that  we  should  leave  the  country, 
and  offered  to  pay  our  way  to  America. 
We  were  all  indifferent ;  we  were  paral- 
yzed by  grief.  The  almshouse  was  not 
a  place  that  we  could  cling  to,  so  we 
let  ourselves  drift,  and  allowed  Potts  to 
send  us  where  he  wished.  We  did  not 
even  hope  for  anything  better.  We  only 
hoped  that  somewhere  or  other  we  u'ight 
all  die.  What  else  could  we  do?  What 
else  could  I  do  ?  There  was  no  friend  to 
whom  I  could  look  ;  and  if  I  ev'^r  thought 
of  anything,  it  was  thr.t  America  might 
possibly  afford  us  a  chance  to  get  a  liv- 
ing till  death  c:  me. 


^*i'r; 


FRANK  S   STORY 


131 


/.  I  will 
:er.  It  is 
was  lost. 
1  took  a 

aintances 
it  friends 
yhetti  was 
.bout  this, 
resently. 
vas  dead. 
•ant  of  all 
h  of  Eng- 
nd  I  can't 
e  married 
rhat  is    a 


hiug  like  a 
u  hear  me 


"  So  tve  allowed  ourselves  to  be  sent 
wherever  Potts  chose,  since  it  could  not 
possibly  make  things  worse  than  they 
were.  He  availed  himself  of  our  stolid 
indifference,  put  us  as  passengers  in  the 
steerage  on  board  of  a  crowded  em'grant 
ship,  the  Tecumsehy  and  gave  us  for  our 
provisions  some  mouldy  bread. 

"  We  simply  lived  and  suffered,  and 
were  all  waiting  for  death,  till  one  day  an 
angel  appeared  who  gave  us  a  sharp 
respite,  and  saved  us  for  a  while  from 
misery.  This  angel,  Louis,  was  Paolo, 
the  son  of  Langhetti. 

"You  look  amazed.  It  was  certainx^ 
an  amazing  thing  that  he  should  be  on 
board  the  same  ship  with  us.  He  was  in 
the  cabin.  He  noticed  our  misery  with- 
out knowing  who  we  were.  He  came  to 
give  us  his  pity  and  help  us.  When  at 
last  he  found  out  our  names  he  fell  on 
our  necks,  kissed  us,  and  wept  aloud. 

"  He  gave  up  his  room  in  the  cabin  to 
my  mother  and  sister,  and  slept  and 
lived  with  me.  Most  of  all  he  cheered  us 
by  the  lofty,  spiritual  words  with  which 
ht  bade  us  look  with  contempt  upon  the 
troubles  of  life  and  aspire  after  immortal 
happiness.  Yes,  Louis;  Langhetti  gave 
us  peace. 

"  There  were  six  hundred  passengers. 
The  plague  broke  out  among  us.  The 
deaths  every  day  increased,  and  all  were 
filled  with  despair.  At  last  the  sailors 
themselves  began  to  die. 

"  1  believe  there  was  only  one  in  all 
that  S\^  who  preserved  calm  reason  and 
stood  without  fear  during  those  awful 
weeks.  That  one  was  Langhetti.  He 
found  the  officers  of  the  ship  panic- 
stricken,  so  he  took  charge  of  the  steer- 
age, organized  nurses,  watched  over 
everything,  encouraged  everybody,  and 
labored  night  and  day.  In  the  midst  of 
all  I  fell  sick,  and  he  nursed  me  back  to 


life.  Most  of  all,  that  man  inspired 
fortitude  by  the  hope  that  beamed  in  his 
eyes,  and  by  the  radiancy  of  his  smile. 
•  Never  mind,  Brandon,'  said  he  as  I  lay, 
I  thought,  doomed.  '  Death  is  nothing. 
Life  goes  on.  You  will  leave  this  pest- 
ship  for  a  realm  of  light.  Keep  up  your 
heart,  my  brother  immortal,  and  praise 
God  with  your  latest  breath.' 

"  I  recovered,  and  then  stood  by  his 
side  as  best  I  might.  I  found  that  he  had 
never  told  my  mother  of  my  sickness. 
At  last  m.y  mother  and  sister  in  the  cabin 
fell  sick.  I  heard  of  it  some  days  after, 
and  wpa  prostrated  again.  I  grew  better 
after  a  time ;  but  just  as  we  reached 
quarantine,  Langhetti,  who  had  kept  him- 
self up  thus  far,  gave  out  completely,  and 
fell  before  the  plague." 

"  Did  he  die  ?  "  asked  Louis,  in  a  falter- 
ing voice. 

"  Not  on  shipboard.  He  was  carried 
ashore  senseless.  My  mother  and  sister 
were  very  low,  and  were  also  carried 
on  shore.  I,  though  weak,  was  able 
to  nurse  them  all.  My  mother  died 
first." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  At  last 
Frank  resumed  : 

"  My  sister  gradually  recovered ;  and 
then,  through  grief  and  fatigue,  I  fell  sick 
for  the  third  time.  I  felt  it  >-oming  on. 
My  sister  nursed  me ;  for  a  time  I 
thought  I  was  going  to  die.  '  O  Edith,' 
T  said,  '  when  I  die,  devote  your  life 
while  it  lasts  to  Langhetti,  whom  God 
sent  to  us  in  our  despair.  Save  his  life 
even  if  you  give  up  your  own.' 

"  After  that  I  became  delirious,  and 
remained  so  for  a  long  time.  Weeks 
passed  ;  and  when  at  la^t  I  revived  the 
plague  was  stayed,  and  but  few  sick  were 
on  the  island.  My  case  was  a  lingering 
one,  for  this  was  the  third  attack  of  the 
fever.    Why  I  didn't  die  I  can't  under- 


"■  'wbmM 


I 
"••'"■"W-M*!!* 

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"  «""■•"' 

■■■■     "»>.ln«J» 

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■  'iwalil^WWf  ■. 


132 


CORD    AND    CREESE 


All 


ill 


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iM 


ill 

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It-: 


Stand.    There  was  no  attendance 
was  confusion,  horror,  and  death. 

"  When  I  revived  the  first  question  was 
after  Langhetti  and  Edith.  No  one 
knew  anything  about  them.  In  the  con- 
fusion we  had  been  separated,  and  Edith 
had  died  alone." 

"  Who  told  you  that  she  died  ?  "  asked 
Louis,  with  a  troubled  look. 

Frank  looked  at  him  with  a  face  of 
horror. 

"  Can  you  bear  what  I  am  going  to 
say  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  When  I  was  able  to  move  about  I 
went  to  see  if  anyone  could  tell  me  about 
Edith  and  Langhetti.  I  heard  an  awful 
storv ;  that  the  superintendent  had  gone 
mad  and  had  been  found  trying  to  dig 
open  a  grave,  saying  that  someone  was 
buried  alive.  Who  do  you  think  ?  oh, 
my  brother ! " 

"  Speak ! " 

"Edith  Brandon  was  the  name  he 
named." 

*'  Be  calm,  Frank  ;  I  made  enquiries 
myself  at  the  island  registry  office.  The 
clerk  told  me  this  story,  but  said  that  the 
woman  who  had  charge  of  the  dead 
asserted  that  the  grave  was  opened,  and 
it  was  ascertained  that  absolute  death  had 
taken  place." 

"  Alas ! "  said  Frank,  in  a  voice  of 
despair,  "  I  saw  that  woman— the  keeper 
of  the  dead-house — the  grave-digger's 
wife.  She  told  me  this  story,  but  it  was 
with  a  troubled  eye.  I  swore  vengeance 
on  her  unless  she  told  me  the  truth.  She 
was  alarmed,  and  said  she  would  reveal 
all  she  knew  if  I  swore  to  keep  it  to  my- 
self. I  swore  it.  Can  you  bear  to  hear 
it,  Louis?  " 

"  Speak  !  " 

"  She  said  only  this  :  '  When  the  grave 
was  opened  it  was    found    that  Edith 


Brandon  had  not  been  dead  when  she 
was  buried.' " 

Louis  groaned,  and,  falling  forward, 
buried  his  head  in  both  his  hands. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  either  of 
them  spoke.  At  last  Louis,  without  lift- 
ing his  head,  said : 

"  Go  on." 

"  When  I  left  the  island  I  went  to 
Quebec,  but  could  not  stay  there.  It 
was  too  near  the  place  of  horror.  I  went 
up  the  river,  working  my  way  as  a 
laborer,  to  Montreal.  I  then  sought  for 
work,  and  obtained  employment  as  porter 
in  a  warehouse.  What  mattered  it? 
What  was  rank  or  station  to  me  ?  I  only 
wanted  to  keep  myself  from  starvation 
and  get  a  bed  to  sleep  on  at  night. 

"  I  had  no  hope  or  thought  of  anything. 
The  horrors  through  which  I  had  passed 
were  enough  to  fill  my  mind.  Yet  above 
them  all  one  horror  was  predominant, 
and  never  through  the  days  and  nights 
that  have  since  elapsed  has  my  soul 
ceased  to  quiver  at  the  echo  of  two  terri- 
ble words  which  have  never  ceased  to 
ring  through  my  brain — '  Buried  alive ! ' 

"  I  lived  on  in  Montreal,  under  an 
assumed  name,  as  a  common  porter,  aiui 
might  have  been  living  there  yet ;  hut 
one  day  as  I  came  in  I  heard  the  name  of 
'  Brandon.'  Two  of  the  clerks  who  were 
discussing  the  news  in  the  morning  paper 
happened  to  speak  of  an  advertisement 
which  had  long  been  in  the  papers  in  all 
parts  of  Canada.  It  was  for  information 
about  the  Braiidon  family. 

"  I  read  the  notice.  It  seemed  to  me 
at  first  that  Potts  was  still  trying  to  get 
control  of  us,  but  a  moment's  reflection 
showed  that  to  be  improbable.  Then  the 
mention  of  *  the  friends  of  the  family ' 
made  me  think  of  Langhetti.  I  concluded 
that  he  had  escaped  death  and  was  trying 
to  find  me  out. 


FRANK  S    STORY 


133 


rhen  she 

forward, 
ancls. 
either  of 
hout  lift- 


went,  to 
there.    It 
r.     I  went 
vay    as  a 
iought  for 
t  as  porter 
.ttered  it? 
e  ?    I  only 
starvation 
it  night, 
if  anything, 
had  passed 
Yet  above 
edominant, 
land  nights 
i  my    soul 
f  two  teni- 
•  ceased  to 
-ied  alive!' 
,  under  an 
porter,  aiul 
le  yet ;  but 
he  name  of 
s  who  were 
rning  paper 
Ivertisemeiit 
apers  in  all 
linformation 

emed  to  me 
lying  to  get 
Is  reflection 
Then  the 
Ithe  family' 
]l  concluded 
was  trying 


"  I  went  to  Toronto,  and  found  that 
you  had  gone  to  New  York.  I  had  saved 
much  of  my  wages,  and  was  able  to  come 
here.  I  expected  Langhetti,  but  found 
you." 

"  Why  did  you  not  think  that  it  might 
be  me  ?  " 

"  Because  I  heard  a  threat  of  Potts 
about  you,  and  took  it  for  granted  that 
he  would  succeed  in  carrying  it  out." 

"  What  was  the  threat  ?  " 

"He  found  out  somehow  that  my 
father  had  written  a  letter  to  you.  I  sup- 
pose they  told  him  so  at  the  village  post- 
olifice.  One  day  when  he  was  in  the 
room  he  said,  with  a  laugh,  alluding  to 
the  letter, '  I'll  uncork  that  young  Brandy- 
flask  before  long.' " 

"Well— the  notice  of  my  death  ap- 
peared in  the  English  papers." 

Frank  looked  earnestly  at  him. 

"  And  I  accept  it,  and  go  under  an 
assumed  name." 

"  So  do  I.     It  is  better." 

"You  thought  Langhetti  alive.  Do 
you  think  he  is  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  so  now." 

"Why  not?" 

"The  efforts  which  he  made  were 
enough  to  kill  any  man  without  the 
plague.    He  must  have  died." 

After  hearing  Frank's  story  Louis  gave 
a  full  account  of  his  own  adventures, 
omitting,  however,  all  mention  of  Beatrice, 
That  was  something  for  his  own  heart. 
and  not  for  another's  ear. 

"  Have  you  the  letter  and  MS.?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Let  me  read  them." 

Louis  took  the  treasures  and  Iianded 
them  to  Frank.  He  read  them  in 
silence. 

"  Is  Cato  with  you  yet  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  It  is  well." 


"  And  now,  Frank,"  said  Louis,  "  you 
have  something  at  last  to  live  for." 

"  What  is  that  ?  " 

"  Vengeance  !  "  cried  Louis  with  burn- 
ing eyes. 

"  Vengeance  !  "  repeated  Frank,  with- 
out emotion—"  Vengeance !  What  is 
that  to  me  ?  Do  you  hope  to  give  peace 
to  your  own  heart  by  inflicting  suffering 
on  our  enemies?  What  can  they  possi- 
bly suffer  that  can  atone  for  what  they 
have  inflicted  ?  All  that  they  can  feel  is 
as  nothing  compared  with  what  we  have 
felt.  Vengeance  !  "  he  repeated  mus- 
ingly ;  "and  what  sort  of  vengeance? 
Would  you  kill  them  ?  What  would  that 
effect  ?  Would  he  be  more  miserable  than 
he  is  ?  Or  would  you  feel  any  greater 
happiness  ?  Or  do  you  mean  something 
more  far-reaching  than  death  ?  " 

"  Death,"  said  Louis,  "  is  nothing  for 
such  crimes  as  his." 

"  You  want  to  inflict  suffering,  then, 
and  you  ask  me.  Well,  after  all,  do  I 
want  him  to  suffer  ?  Do  I  care  for  this 
man's  sufferings  ?  What  are  they  or 
what  can  they  be  to  me  ?  He  stands  on 
his  own  plane,  far  beneath  me  ;  he  is  a 
coarse  animal,  who  can,  perhaps,  suffer 
from  nothing  but  physical  pain.  Should 
I  inflict  that  on  him,  what  good  would  it 
be  to  me  ?  And  yet  there  is  none  other 
that  I  can  inflict." 

"  Langhetti  must  have  transformed 
you,"  said  Louis,  "  with  his  spiritual 
ideas." 

"  Langhetti ;  or  perhaps  the  fact  that  I 
three  times  gazed  upon  the  face  of  death 
and  stood  upon  the  threshold  of  that 
place  where  dwells  the  Infinite  Mystery. 
So  when  you  speak  of  mere  vengeance 
my  heart  does  not  respond.  But  there 
is  still  something  which  may  make  a  pur- 
pose as  strong  as  vengeance." 
I     "  Name  it." 


■■■  ■■'■'lii.win 
,:» .■•■■ 

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.„;:;:::»»» 
■■'■'■'■"'"".., 


134 


CORD    AND    CREESE 


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"  The  sense  of  intolerable  wrong ! " 
cried  Frank,  in  vehement  tones;  "the 
presence  of  that  foul  pair  in  the  home  of 
our  ancestors,  our  own  exile,  and  all  the 
sufferings  of  the  past  !  Do  you  think 
that  I  can  endure  this  ?  " 

"  No — you  must  have  vengeance." 

"  No ;  not  vengeance." 

"  What  then  ?  " 

"  Justice  !  "  cried  Frank,  starting  to  his 
feet.  "  Justice — strict,  stern,  merciless  ; 
and  that  justice  means  to  me  all  that  you 
mean  by  vengeance.  Let  us  make  war 
against  him  from  this  time  forth  while  life 
lasts ;  let  us  cast  him  out  and  get  back 
our  own ;  let  us  put  him  into  the  power 
of  the  law,  and  let  that  take  satisfaction 
on  him  for  his  crimes ;  let  us  cast  him 
out  and  fling  him  from  us  to  that  power 
which  can  fittingly  condemn.  I  despise 
him,  and  despise  his  sufferings.  His 
agony  will  give  me  no  gratification.  The 
anguish  that  a  base  nature  can  suffer  is 
only  disgusting  to  me — he  suffers  only 
out  of  his  baseness.  To  me,  and  with  a 
thing  like  that,  vengeance  is  impossible, 
and  justice  is  enough." 

"  At  any  rate  you  will  have  a  purpose, 
and  your  purpose  points  to  the  same 
result  as  mine." 

"  But  how  is  this  possible  ?  "  said  Frank. 


It  is  desperate~it 
but  we  are  botli 


"  He  is  strong  and  we  are  weak.     What 
can  we  do  ? " 

"  We  can  try,"  said  Louis.  "  You  are 
ready  to  undertake  anything.  You  do 
not  value  your  life.  There  is  one  thing 
which  is  before  us. 
is  almost  hopeless ; 
ready  to  try  it." 

"  What  is  that  ?  " 

"The  message  from  the  dead,"  said 
Louis,  spreading  before  Frank  that  letter 
from  the  treasure  ship  which  he  had  so 
often  read. 

"  And  are  you  going  to  try  this  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  How  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  must  first  find  out 
the  resources  of  science." 

"  Have  you  Cato  yet  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Can  he  dive  ?  " 

"  He  was  brought  up  on  the  Malabar 
coast,  among  the  pearl  fishers,  and  can 
remain  under  water  for  an  incrediljle 
space  of  time.  But  I  hope  to  find  means 
which  will  enable  me  myself  to  go 
down  under  the  ocean  depths.  This 
will  be  our  object  now.  If  it  suc- 
ceeds, then  we  can  gain  our  purpose; 
if  not,  we  must  think  of  something 
else." 


CHAPTER  XXI 


THE  DIVING    BUSINESS 


In  a  little  street  that  runs  from  Broad- 
way, not  far  from  Wall  Sueet,  there  was 
a  low  doorway  with  dingy  panes  of  glass, 
over  which  was  a  sign  which  bore  the 
following  letters,  somewhat  faded : 

BROCKET  &  CO., 
CONTRACTORS. 


About  a  month  after  his  arrival  at  New 
York  Brandon  entered  this  place  and 
walked  up  to  the  desk,  where  a  stout, 
thick-set  man  was  sitting,  with  his  chin 
on  his  hands  and  his  elbows  on  the  desk 
before  him. 

"  Mr.  Brocket  ?  "  said  Brandon  enquir- 
ingly. 


THE    DIVING    BUSINESS 


135 


k.    What 

"  You  are 
You  do 

one  thing 

iperate — it 

are  both 


lead,"  said 
:  that  letter 
I  he  had  so 

this?" 

rst  find  out 


the  Mala1)ar 
ers,  and  can 
1    incredible 
0  find  means 
lyself  to  go 
epths.    This 
If    it    suc- 
ur  purpose; 
something 


Irrival  at  New 

Is  place    and 

lere  a  stout, 

nth  his  cliin 

on  the  desk 

Indon  enquir- 


"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  other,  descend- 
ing from  his  stool  and  stepping  forward 
toward  Hrandon,  beliind  a  low  table  which 
stood  by  the  desk. 

"  I  am  told  that  you  undertake  con- 
tracts fur  raising  sunken  vessels?" 

"  We  are  in  that  line  oi  business." 

"  You  have  to  make  use  of  diving  ap- 
paratus ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  understand  that  you  have  gone  into 
this  business  to  a  larger  extent  than  any- 
one in  America?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Brocket  modestly, 
"I  think  we  do  the  leading  business  in 
that  line." 

"I  will  tell  you  frankly  my  object  in 
calling  upon  you.  I  have  just  come  from 
the  East  Indies  for  the  purpose  of  organ- 
izing a  systematic  plan  for  the  pearl  fish- 
eries. You  are  aware  that  out  there  they 
still  cling  to  the  old  fashion  of  diving, 
which  was  begun  three  thousand  years 
ago.  I  wish  to  see  if  I  cannot  bring 
science  tobear  upon  it,  so  as  to  ra'se  the 
pearl-oysters  in  larger  quantities." 

"  That's  a  good  idea  of  yours,"  re- 
marked  Mr.  Brocket   thoughtfully. 

"  I  came  to  you  to  see  if  you  could 
inform  me  whether  it  would  be  practi- 
cable or  not." 

"  Perfectly  so,"  said  Brocket. 

"  Do  you  work  with  the  diving  bell  in 
your  business  or  with  armor  ?  " 

''With  both.  We  use  the  diving-bell 
for  stationary  purposes ;  but  when  it  is 
necessary  to  move  about  we  employ 
armor." 

"  Is  the  armor  adapted  to  give  a  man 

any  freedom  of  movement  ?  " 

"  The  armor  is  far  better  than  the  bell. 

The  armor  is    so   perfect   now  that  a 

practiced  hand  can   move   about   under 

water  with  a  freedom  that  is  surprising. 

My  men  go  down  to  examine  sunken 
10 


ships.  They  go  in  and  out  and  all 
through  them.  Sometimes  this  is  the 
most   protitable   part  of  our   business." 

"Why  so?" 

'*  Why,  because  there  is  often  money 
or  valuable  articles  on  board,  and  tliese 
always  are  ours.  See,"  said  Brocket, 
opening  a  drawer  and  taking  out  some  sil- 
ver coin,  "  here  is  some  money  that  we 
found  in  an  old  Dutch  vessel  that  was 
sunk  up  the  Hudson  a  hundred  years 
ago.  Our  men  walked  about  the  bed 
of  the  river  till  they  found  her,  and  in 
her  cabin  they  obtained  a  sum  of  money 
that  would  surprise  you — all  old  coin." 

"  An  old  Dutch  vessel !  Do  you  often 
find  vessels  that  have  been  sunk  so  long 
ago?" 

"  Not  often.  But  we  are  always  on  the 
lookout  for  them,"  said  Brocket,  who  had 
now  grown  quite  communicative.  "  You 
see,  those  old  ships  always  carried  ready 
cash— they  didn't  use  banknotes  and 
bills  of  exchange.  So  if  you  can  only  find 
one  you're  sure  of  money." 

"  Then  this  would  be  a  good  thing  to 
bear  in  mind  in  our  pearl  enterprises?" 

"  Of  course.  I  should  think  that  out 
there  some  reefs  must  be  full  of  sunken 
ships.  They've  been  sinking  about  those 
coasts  ever  since  the  first  ship  was 
built." 

"  How  far  down  can  a  diver  go  in 
armor  ?  " 

"  Oh,  any  reasonable  depth,  when  the 
pressure  of  the  water  is  not  too  great. 
Some  pain  in  the  ears  is  felt  at  first  from 
the  compressed  air,  but  that  is  temporary. 
Men  can  easily  go  down  as  far  as  fifteen 
or  sixteen  fathoms." 

"  How  long  can  they  stay  down  ?  " 

"  In  the  bells,  you  know,  they  go  down 
and  are  pulled  up  only  in  the  middle 
of  the  day  and  at  evening,  when  their 
work  is  done." 


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CORD    AND   CREESE 


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"  How  with  the  men  in  armor  ?  " 
"  Oh,  they  can  stand  it  ahnost  as  well. 
They  come  up  oftener,  though.    There 
is  one  advantage  in  the  armor  :  a  man 
can   fling  off  his  weight  and  come  up 
whenever  he  likes." 
"  Have  you  ever  been  down  yourself  ?  " 
"  Oh,  yes— oftener  than  any  of  my  men. 
I'm   the  oldest   diver  in  the  country,  I 
think.     But  I  don't  go  down  often  now. 
It's  hard  work,  and  I'm  getting  old." 
*'  Is  it  much  harder  than  othervvork.?  " 
"  Well,  you  see,  it's  unnatural   sort  of 
work,  and  is  hard  on  the  lungs.    Still,  I 
always  was  healthy.     The  real   reason 
why  I  stopped  was  a  circumstance  that 
happened  two  years  ago." 
"  What  was  that  ?  " 
Brocket  drew  a  long  breath,  looked 
for  a  moment  meditatively  at  the  floor, 
and  then  went  on  : 

"  Well,  there  happened  to  be  a  wreck 
of  a  steamer  called  the  Saladin  down  off 
the  North  Carolina  coast,  and  I  thought 
I  would  try  her  as  a  speculation,  for  I 
supposed  that  there  might  be  consider- 
able money  on  hoard  one  way  or  another. 
It  was  a  very  b.igular  affair.  Only  two 
men  had  escaped ;  it  was  so  sudden. 
They  said  the  vessel  struck  a  rock  at 
night  when  the  water  was  perfectly  still, 
and  went  down  in  a  few  minutes,  before 
the  passengers  could  even  be  awakened. 
It  may  seem  horrid  to  you,  but  you  must 
know  that  a  ship-load  of  passengers  is 
very  profitable,  for  they  all  carry  money. 
Besides,  there  are  their  trunks,  and  the 
clerk's  desk,  and  so  on.  So,  this  time, 
I  went  down  myself.  The  ship  lay  on 
one  side  of  the  rock  which  had  pierced 
her,  having  floated  off  just  before  sink- 
ing ;  and  I  had  no  difficulty  in  getting  on 
board.  After  walking  about  the  deck  I 
went  at  once  into  the  saloon.  Sir,"  said 
Brocket,  with  an  awful  look  at  Brandon, 


"  if  I  should  live  for  a  hundred  years  I 
should  never  forget  the  sight  that  I  saw. 
A  hundred  passengers  or  more  had  been 
on  board,  and  most  of  them  had  rushed 
out  of  their  state-rooms  as  the  vessel 
began  to  sink.  Very  many  of  them 
lay  on  the  floor,  a  frightful  multitude  of 
dead." 

"  But  there  were  others,"  continued 
Brocket,  in  a  lower  tone,  *'  who  had 
clutched  at  pieces  of  furniture,  at  the 
doors,  and  at  the  chairs,  and  many  of 
these  had  held  on  with  such  a  rigid 
clutch  that  death  itself  had  not  unlocked 
it.  Some  were  still  upright,  with  dis- 
torted features,  and  staring  eyes,  cling- 
ing, with  frantic  faces,  to  the  nearest 
object  that  they  had  seen  Several  of 
them  stood  around  the  table.  The  most 
frightful  thing  was  this  :  that  they  were 
all  staring  at  the  door. 

*'  But  the  worst  one  of  all  was  a  corpse 
that  was  on  the  saloon  table.  Tlie 
wretch  had  leaped  there  in  his  first  mad 
impulse,  and  his  hands  had  clutched  a 
brass  bar  that  ran  across.  He  was  facing 
the  door;  his  hands  were  still  clinging, 
his  eyes  glared  at  me,  his  jaw  had  fallen. 
The  hideous  face  seemed  grimacing  at 
and  threatening  me.  As  I  entered  the 
water  was  disturbed  by  my  motion.  An 
undulation,  set  in  movement  by  my 
entrance,  passed  through  the  length  of  the 
saloon.  All  the  corpses  swayed  for  a 
moment.  I  stopped  in  horror.  Scarcely 
had  I  stopped  when  the  corpses,  agitated 
by  the  motion  of  the  water  and  swaying, 
lost  their  hold  ;  their  fingers  slipped,  and 
they  fell  forward  simultaneously.  Above 
all,  that  hideous  figure  on  the  table,  as  its 
fingers  were  loosened,  in  falling  forward, 
seemed  to  take  steps,  with  his  demon 
face  still  staring  at  me.  My  blood  ran 
cold.  It  seemed  to  me  as  though  these 
devils  were  all  rushing  at  me,  led  on  by 


4\ 


THE    DIVING    BUSINESS 


137 


d  years  1 
hat  I  saw. 

had  been 
lad  rushed 
the  vessel 

of  tliem 
ultitude  of 

continued 
'  who  had 
ire,  at  the 
\  many  of 
ch  a  rigid 
it  unlocked 
with  dis- 
eyes,  cling- 
Lhe  nearest 

Several  of 

The  most 

t  they  were 

^as  a  corpse 
able.     The 
is  first  mad 
clutched  a 
e  was  facing 
;ill  clinging, 
/  had  fallen, 
rimacing  at 
entered  the 
notion.    An 
nt    by    my 
ength  of  the 
rayed  for  a 
Scarcely 
ses,  agitated 
nd  swaying, 
slipped,  and 
sly.    Above 
table,  as  its 
ng  forward, 
his  demon 
y  blood  ran 
hough  these 
e,  led  on  by 


that  fiend  on  the  table.  For  the  first 
time  in  my  life,  sir,  I  felt  fear  under  the 
the  sea.  I  started  back,  and  rushed  out 
quaking  as  though  all  hell  was  behind  me. 
When  I  got  up  to  the  surface  I  could  not 
speak.  1  instantly  left  the  Sa/adm, came 
home  with  my  men,  and  have  never  been 
down  myself  since." 

A  long  conversation  followed  about 
the  general  condition  of  sunken  ships. 
Brocket  had  no  fear  of  rivals  in  business, 
and  as  his  interlocutor  did  not  pretend  to 
be  one  he  was  exceedingly  communica- 
tive. He  described  to  him  the  exact 
depth  to  which  a  diver  in  armor  might 
safely  go,  the  longest  time  that  he  could 
safely  remain  under  water,  the  rate  of 
travel  in  walking  along  a  smooth  bottom, 
and  the  distance  which  one  could  walk. 
He  told  him  how  to  go  on  board  of  a 
wrecked  ship  with  the  least  risk  or  diffi- 
culty, and  the  best  mode  by  which  to 
secure  any  valuables  which  he  might 
find.  At  last  he  became  so  exceedingly 
friendly  that  Brandon  asked  him  if  he 
would  be  willing  to  give  personal  instruc- 
tions to  himself,  hinting  that  money  was  no 
object,  and  that  any  price  would  be  paid. 

At  this  Brocket  laughed.  "  My  dear 
sir,  you  take  my  fancy,  for  I  think  I  see 
in  you  a  man  of  the  right  sort.  I  should 
be  very  glad  to  show  anyone  like  you 
how  to  go  to  work.  Don't  mention 
money ;  I  have  actually  got  more  now 
than  I  know  what  to  do  with,  and  I'm 
thinking  of  founding  an  asylum  for  the 
poor.  I'll  sell  you  any  number  of  suits 
of  armor,  if  you  want  them,  merely  in 
the  way  of  business ;  but  if  I  give  you 
instructions  it  will  be  merely  because 
I  like  to  oblige  a  man  like  you." 

Brandon  of  course  expressed  all  the  grati- 
tude that  so  generous  an  offer  could  excite. 

"  But  there's  no  use  trying  just  yet ; 
wait  till  the  month  of  May,  and  then  you 


can  begin.    You  have  nerve,  and  I  have 
no  doubt  that  you'll  learn  fast." 

After  this  interview  Brandon  had 
many  others.  To  give  credibility  to 
his  pretended  plan  for  the  pearl  fisiiers, 
he  bought  a  dozen  suits  of  diving  armor 
and  various  articles  which  Brocket  as- 
sured him  that  he  would  need.  He  also 
brought  Cato  with  him  one  day,  and  the 
Hindu  described  the  plan  which  the 
pearl  divers  pursued  on  the  Malabar 
coast.  According  to  Cato  each  diver 
had  a  stone  which  weighed  about  thirty 
pounds  tied  to  his  foot,  and  a  sponge 
filled  with  oil  fastened  around  his  neck. 
On  plunging  into  the  water,  the  weight 
carried  him  down.  When  the  diver 
reached  the  bottom  the  oiled  sponge  was 
used  from  time  to  time  to  enable  him  to 
breathe  by  inhaling  the  air  through  the 
sponge  applied  to  his  mouth.  All  this 
was  new  to  Brocket.     It  excited  his  ardor. 

The  month  of  May  at  last  came. 
Brocket  showed  them  a  place  in  the 
Hudson,  about  twenty  miles  above  the 
city,  where  they  could  practice.  Under 
his  direction  Brandon  put  on  the  armor 
and  went  down.  Frank  v^orked  the 
pumps  which  supplied  him  with  air,  and 
Cato  managed  the  boat.  The  two  Bran- 
dons learned  their  parts  vapidly,  and 
Louis,  who  had  the  hardest  task,  im- 
proved so  quickly,  and  caught  the  idea 
of  the  work  so  readily,  that  Brocket  en- 
thusiastically assured  him  that  he  was  a 
natural-born  diver. 

All  this  time  Brandon  was  quietly  mak- 
ing arrangements  for  a  voyage.  He 
gradually  obtained  everything  which 
might  by  any  possibility  be  required,  and 
which  he  found  out  by  long  deliberations 
with  Frank  and  by  hints  which  he  gained 
by  well-managed  questions  to  Brocket. 

Thus  the  months  of  May  and  June  passed 
until  at  length  they  were  ready  to  start. 


1;  -  '»"■ 
..,,,. Ill,  «„i, 

f 

...1..,.;^ 


.  ..ti.iti  ittBP  ' 


,  .!','|tii*i.«r 

■■— 

Bflb 

■:::;;iiij»t 


""•"«t, . 

!•■*' 


CHAPTER  XXII 


THE   ISLET  OF  SANTA  CRUZ 


I.  I'll 
.in' 


I' 


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1  .,„ 

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tA.    'Iw 

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i 


It  was  July  when  Brandon  left  New 
York  for  San  Salvador. 

He  had  purchased  a  beautiful  little 
schooner,  which  he  had  fitted  up  like  a 
gentleman's  yacht,  and  stored  with  all 
the  articles  which  might  be  needed.  In 
cruising  about  the  Bahama  Isles  he 
intended  to  let  it  be  supposed  that  he 
was  travelling  for  pleasure.  True,  the 
month  of  July  was  not  the  time  of  the 
year  which  pleasure-seekers  would  choose 
for  sailing  in  the  West  Indies,  but  of  this 
he  did  not  take  much  thought. 

The  way  to  the  Bahama  Isles  was 
easy.  They  stopped  for  a  while  at 
Nassau,  and  then  went  to  San  Salvador. 

The  first  part  of  the  New  World  which 
Columbus  discovered  is  now  but  seldom 
visited,  and  few  inhabitants  are  found 
there.  Only  six  hundred  people  dwell 
upon  it,  and  these  have  in  general  but 
little  intelligence.  On  reaching  this 
place  Brandon  sailed  to  the  harbor 
which  Columbus  entered,  and  made 
many  enquiries  about  that  immortal  land- 
ing. Traditions  still  survived  among  the 
people,  and  all  were  glad  to  show  the 
rich  Englishman  the  lions  of  the  place. 

He  was  thus  enabled  to  make  enquiries, 
without  exciting  suspicion,  about  the 
islands  lying  to  the  north.  He  was  in- 
formed that  about  four  leagues  north 
there  was  an  island  named  Guahi,  and  as 
there  was  no  island  known  in  that  direc- 
tion named  Santa  Cruz,  Brandon  thought 
that  this  might  be  the  one.  He  asked  if 
there  were  any  small  islets  or  sand-banks 


near  there,  but  no  one  could  tell  him. 
Having  gained  all  the  information  that 
he  could,  he  pursued  his  voyage. 

In  that  hot  season  there  was  but  little 
wind.  The  seas  were  visited  by  profound 
calms  which  continued  long  and  rendered 
navigation  slow  and  tedious.  Sometimes, 
to  prevent  themselves  from  being  swept 
away  by  the  currents,  they  had  to  cast 
anchor.  At  other  times  they  were  forced 
to  keep  in  ciose  by  the  shore.  They 
waited  till  the  night  came  on,  and  then, 
putting  out  the  sweeps,  they  rowed  the 
yacht  slowly  along. 

It  was  the  middle  of  July  before  they 
reached  the  island  of  Guahi,  which  Bran- 
don thought  might  be  Santa  Cruz.  If 
so,  then  one  league  due  north  of  this 
there  ought  to  be  the  islet  of  the  Three 
Needles.  Upon  the  discovery  of  that 
would  depend  their  fate. 

It  was  evening  when  they  reached  the 
southern  shore  of  Guahi.  Now  was  the 
time  when  all  the  future  depended  upon 
the  fact  of  the  existence  of  an  islet  to  the 
north.  That  night  on  the  south  shore 
was  passed  in  deep  anxiety.  They  rowed 
the  vessel  on  with  their  sweeps,  but  the 
island  was  too  large  to  be  passed  in  one 
night.  Morning  came,  and  still  they 
rowed. 

The  morning  passed,  and  the  hot  sun 
burned  down  upon  them,  yet  they  still 
toiled  on,  seeking  to  pass  beyond  a  point 
which  lay  ahead,  so  as  to  see  the  open 
water  to  the  north.  Gradually  they 
neared    it,  and  the  sea-vievv    in    fioiu 


<38 


THE    ISLKT    or    SANTA    CRUZ 


•39 


opened  up  more  and  more  widely.  There 
was  nothing  but  water.  More  and  more 
of  the  view  exposed  itself,  until  at  last 
the  whole  horizon  was  visible.  Vet  there 
was  no  land  the.e — no  island—  no  sign  of 
those  three  rocxs  which  they  longed  so 
much  to  find. 

A  li^jht  wind  arose  which  enabled 
tlicm  to  sail  over  all  the  space  that  lay 
one  league  to  the  north.  They  sounded 
as  they  v;ent,  but  found  only  deep 
water.  They  looked  all  around,  but 
found  not  so  much  as  the  smallest 
point  of  land  above  the  surface  of  the 
ocean. 

That  evening  they  cast  anchor  and 
went  ashore  at  the  island  of  Guahi,  to  see 
if  anyone  knew  of  other  islands  among 
which  might  be  found  one  named  Santa 
Cruz.  Their  disappointment  was  pro- 
found. Brandon  for  a  while  thought 
that  perhaps  some  other  San  Salvador 
was  meant  in  the  letter.  This  very  idea 
had  occurred  to  him  before,  and  he  had 
made  himself  acquainted  with  all  the 
places  of  that  name  that  existed.  None 
of  them  seemed,  however,  to  answer  the 
requirements  of  the  writing.  Some  must 
have  gained  the  name  since  :  others  were 
so  situated  that  no  island  could  be  men- 
tioned as  lying  to  the  north.  On  the 
whole,  it  seemed  to  him  that  this  San 
Salvador  of  Columbus  could  alone  be 
meant.  It  was  alluded  to  as  a  well 
known  place,  of  which  particular  descrip- 
tion was  unnecessary,  and  no  other  place 
at  that  day  had  this  character  except  the 
one  on  which  he  had  decided. 

One  hope  yet  remained,  a  faint  one, 
but  still  a  hope,  and  this  might  yet  be 
realized.  It  was  that  Guahi  was  not 
Santa  Cruz ;  but  that  some  other  island 
lay  about  here,  which  might  be  considered 
as  north  from  San  Salvador.  This  could 
be  ascertained  here  in  Guahi  better  per- 


haps   than    anywhere  else.     With    this 
faint  hope  he  landed. 

Guahi  is  only  a  small  island,  and  there 
are  but  few  inliabitants  upon  it,  who  sup- 
port themselves  partly  by  tlshing.  In 
this  delightful  climate  their  wants  arc  not 
numerous,  and  the  rich  soil  produces 
almost  anything  which  they  desire.  The 
fish  about  here  are  not  plentiful,  and 
what  they  catch  have  to  be  sought  for  at 
a  long  distance  off. 

"  Are  there  any  other  islands  near 
this  ?  "  asked  Brandon  of  some  people 
whom  he  met  on  landing. 

"  Not  very  near." 

"  Which  is  the  nearest  ?  " 

"  San  Salvador." 

"  Are  there  any  others  in  or  about  this 
latitude?" 

"  Well,  there  is  a  small  one  about 
twelve  leagues  east.  There  are  no 
people  on  it  though." 

"  What  is  its  name  ?  " 

"  Santa  Cruz." 

Brandon's  heart  beat  fast  at  the  sound 
of  that  name.  It  must  be  so.  It  must 
be  the  island  which  he  sought.  It  lay  to 
the  north  of  San  Salvador,  and  its  name 
was  Santa  Cruz. 

*'  Is  it  not  down  on  the  charts?  " 

'*  No.    It  is  only  a  small  islet." 

Another  confirmation,  for  the  message 
said  plainly  an  islet,  whereas  Guahi  was 
an  island. 

"  How  large  is  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  perhaps  a  mile  and  a  half  long." 

"  Is  there  any  other  island  near  it  ?  " 

"I  don't  enow." 

"  Have  you  ever  been  there  ?  " 

"  No." 

Plainly  no  further  information  could  he 
gathered  here.  It  was  enough  to  have 
hope  strengthened  and  an  additional 
chance  for  success.  Brandon  obtained 
as  near  as  possible  the  exact  direction  of 


yMMi 
"i 

.    •■I»..,|.»M,1' 


::»" 


'"y 


.  ...iitiitiiMlft 
wow  an 

....  .;J' 


140 


CORD    AND    C  KEKSE 


■I'M 

€ 
£ 

Mil 
IHNt 

< 

c 

c 

t. 
I 


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tiriH  , 


. 

» 

■^ 

■mm 

Santa  Cruz,  and,  going  hack  to  the 
yacht,  took  advantage  of  the  hght  l)ieeze 
whicl)  still  was  hlowing  and  set  sail. 

Night  came  on  very  dark,  but  the 
breeze  still  continued  to  send  its  light 
breath,  and  before  this  the  vessel  gently 
glided  on.  Not  a  thing  could  be  seen  in 
that  intense  darkness.  Toward  morn- 
ing Louis  Brandon,  who  had  remained 
up  all  night  in  his  deep  anxiety,  tried  to 
pierce  through  the  gloom  as  he  strained 
his  eyes,  and  seemed  as  though  he  would 
force  the  darkness  to  reveal  that  which 
he  sought.  But  the  darkness  gave  no 
token. 

Not  Columbus  himself,  when  looking 
out  over  these  waters,  gazed  with  greater 
eagerness,  nor  did  his  heart  beat  with 
greater  anxiety  of  suspense,  than  that 
which  Brandon  felt  as  his  vessel  glided 
slowly  through  the  dark  waters,  the  same 
over  which  Columbus  had  passed,  and 
moved  amid  the  impenetrable  gloom. 
But  the  long  night  of  suspense  glided  by 
at  last ;  the  darkness  faded,  and  the 
dawn  came. 

Brandon,  on  waking  about  sunrise, 
came  up  and  saw  his  brother  looking  with 
fixed  intensity  of  gaze  at  something  di- 
rectly in  front.  He  turned  to  see  what  it 
might  be. 

An  island  covered  with  palm-trees  lay 
there.  Its  extent  was  small,  but  it  was 
filled  with  the  rich  verdure  of  the  tropics. 
The  gentle  breeze  ruffled  the  watel-s,  but 
did  not  altogether  efface  the  reflection  of 
that  beautiful  islet. 

Louis  pointed  toward  the  northeast. 

Frank  looked. 

It  seemed  to  be  about  two  miles  away. 
It  was  a  low  sand  island  about  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  long.  From  its  surface  pro- 
jected three  rocks  thin  and  sharp.  They 
were  at  unequal  distances  from  each 
other,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  islet.    The 


tallest  one  might  have  been  about  twelve 
feet  in  height,  the  others  eight  and  ten 
feet  respectively. 

Louis  and  Frank  exchanged  one  lon^ 
look,  but  said  not  a  word.  That  look 
was  an  eloquent  one. 

This  then  was  unmistakably  the  place 
of  their  search. 

The  islet  with  the  three  rocks  like 
needles  lying  north  of  Santa  Cruz.  One 
league  due  north  of  this  was  the  spot 
where  now  rested  all  their  hopes. 

The  island  of  Santa  Cruz  was,  as  had 
been  told  them,  not  more  than  a  mile  aiul 
a  half  in  length;  the  sand  island  with  the 
needles  lay  about  two  miles  north  of  it. 
On  the  side  of  Santa  Cruz  which  lay 
nearest  to  them  was  a  small  cove  just 
large  enough  for  the  yacht.  Here,  after 
some  delay,  they  were  able  to  enter  and 
land. 

The  tall  trees  that  covered  the  island 
rose  over  beautiful  glades  and  grassy 
slopes.  Too  small  and  too  remote  to 
give  support  to  any  number  of  inhabit- 
ants, it  had  never  been  touched  by  the 
hand  of  man,  but  stood  before  them  in 
all  that  pristine  beauty  with  which  nature 
had  first  endowed  it.  It  reminded  Bran- 
don in  some  degree  of  that  African  island 
where  he  had  passed  some  time  with 
Beatrice.  The  recollection  of  this 
brought  over  him  an  intolerable  melan- 
choly, and  made  the  very  beauty  of  this 
island  painful  to  him.  Yet  hope  was 
now  strong  within  his  heart,  and  as  he 
traversed  its  extent  his  eye  wandered 
about  in  search  of  places  where  he  might 
be  able  to  conceal  the  treasure  that  lay 
under  the  sea,  if  he  were  able  to  recover 
it  from  its  present  place.  The  island 
afforded  many  spots  which  were  well 
adapted  to  such  a  purpose. 

In  the  centre  of  the  island  a  rock  jutted 
up,  which  was  bald  and  flat  on  its  summit. 


THE   OCEAN    DEPTHS 


t4t 


On  the  western  sule  it  showed  a  precipice  |  horhood  it  would  not  do  even  to  make  a 


of  some  forty  or  fifty  feet  in  height,  antl 
on  the  eastern  side  it  descended  to  the 
water  in  a  steep  slope.  The  tall  trees 
which  grew  all  around  shrouded  it  from 
the  view  of  those  at  sea,  but  allowed  the 
sea  to  be  visible  on  every  side.  Climbing 
to  this  place,  they  saw  something  which 
sliowcd  them  that  they  could  not  hope 
to  carry  on  any  operations  for  that 
(lay. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  island,  about 
ten  miles  from  the  shore,  there  lay  a  large 
brig  becalmed.  It  looked  like  one  of 
those  vessels  that  are  in  the  trade  between 
the  United  States  and  the  West  Indies. 
As  long  as  that  vessel  was  in  the  neigh- 


Ixginning.  nor  did  Hiandon  caic  about 
letting  his  yacht  be  seen.  Whatever  he 
did  he  wished  to  do  secretly. 

The  brig  continued  in  sight  all  day, 
and  they  remained  on  the  island.  Toward 
evening  they  took  the  small  boat  and 
rowed  out  to  the  sand-bank  which  they 
called  Needle  Islet.  It  was  merely  a  low 
spit  of  sand,  with  these  three  singularly 
shaped  rocks  projecting  upward.  There 
was  nothmg  else  whatever  to  be  seen 
upon  it.  The  moon  came  up  as  they 
stood  there,  and  their  eyes  wandered 
involuntarily  to  the  north,  to  that  place, 
a  league  away,  where  the  treasure  lay 
beneath  the  waters. 


;?»/**■ 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


THE  OCEAN  DEPTHS 


;  »"••«•• 


The  next  morning  dawned  and  Bran- 
don hurried  to  the  rock  and  looked 
around.  During  the  night  a  slight  wind 
had  sprung  up,  and  was  still  gently 
breathing.  Far  over  the  wide  sea  there 
was  not  a  sail  to  be  seen.  The  brig  had 
passed  away.  They  were  finally  left  to 
themselves. 

Now  at  last  the  time  of  trial  had  come. 
They  were  eager  to  make  the  attempt, 
and  soon  the  yacht  was  unmoored,  and 
moved  slowly  out  to  sea  in  the  direction 
of  Needle  Island.  A  light  breeze  still 
blew  fitfully,  but  promised  at  any  mo- 
ment to  stop ;  yet  while  it  lasted  they 
passed  onward  under  its  gentle  impulse, 
and  so  gradually  reached  Needle  Island, 
and  went  on  into  the  sea  beyond. 

Before  they  had  come  to  the  spot 
which  they  wished  to  attain  the  breeze 


had  died  out,  and  they  were  compelled 
to  take  to  the  oars.  Although  early  in 
the  morning  the  sun  was  burning  hot, 
the  work  was  laborious,  and  the  progress 
was  slow.  Yet  not  a  murmur  was  heard, 
nor  did  a  single  thought  of  fatigue  enter 
the  minds  of  any  of  them.  One  idea 
only  was  present — one  so  overwhelming 
that  all  lesser  thoughts  and  all  ordinary 
feelings  were  completely  obliterated. 
After  two  hours  of  steady  labor  they  at 
last  reached  a  place  which  seemed  to 
them  to  be  exactly  one  league  due  north 
of  Needle  Islet.  Looking  back  they  saw 
that  the  rocks  on  the  island  seemed  from 
this  distance  close,  together,  and  thinner 
and  sharper,  so  that  they  actually  bore  a 
greater  resemblance  to  needles  from  this 
point  than  to  anything  else. 
Here  they  sounded.     The  water  was 


,ir"" 


« 

Jli.ti 


-ftr 


H J 

owint!.  . 


i'AM. 


142 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


\C 


€ 

c; 

IL. 

h 

'MIC!. 

IL 


ii" 


Ij  Iff*-" 


Pfteen  fathoms  deep — not  so  great  a 
depth  as  they  had  feared.  Ti^en  they 
put  down  the  anchor,  for  altliou^jh  there 
was  no  wind,  yet  the  yacht  might  be 
caught  in  some  rurre.it,  and  drift  gradu- 
ally away  from  the  iigiit  position. 

The  small  boat  had  all  this  time  been 
floating  astern  with  the  pumping  appara- 
tus in  it,  so  that  the  adventurous  diver 
might  readily  be  accomoanied  in  his 
search  and  his  wanderings  at  the  bottom 
of  the  sea. 

But  there  was  the  prospect  that  this 
search  would  be  long  and  arduous,  and 
Brandon  was  not  willing  to  exhaust  him- 
self too  soon.  He  had  already  resolved 
that  the  first  exploration  should  be  made 
by  Asgeelo.  The  Hindu  had  followed 
Brandon  in  all  his  wanderings  wilh  that 
silent  submission  and  perfect  devotion 
which  are  more  common  among  Hindus 
than  any  other  people.  He  had  the  air 
of  one  who  was  satisfied  with  obeying 
his  master,  and  did  not  ask  the  end  of  any 
commands  which  might  be  given.  He 
v.'2s  :iware  that  they  were  about  to  explore 
the  ocean  depths,  but  showed  no  curiosity 
about  the  object  cf  their  search.  It  was 
Brandon's  purpose  to  send  him  down  first 
at  different  points,  so  that  he  might  see  if 
there  was  anything  there  which  locked 
like  what  they  sought. 

Asgeelo — cr  Cato,  as  Brandon  com- 
monly called  him — had  made  those  simjile 
preparations  which  are  common  among 
his  class — the  apparatus  which  the  pearl- 
divers  have  used  ever  since  pearl-diving 
first  commenced.  Twelve  or  fifteen 
stones  were  in  the  boat,  a  flask  of  oil,  and 
a  sponge  which  was  fastened  around  his 
neck.  These  were  all  that  he  required. 
Each  stone  weighed  about  thirty  pounds. 
One  of  these  he  tied  around  one  foot ;  he 
saturated  the  sponge  with  oil,  so  as  to 
use  it  to  inhale  air  beneath  the  water ; 


and  then,  standing  on  the  edge  of  the 
boat  and  flinging  his  arms  straight  up 
over  his  head,  he  leaped  into  the  water 
and  went  down  feet  foremost. 

Over  the  smooth  water  the  ripples 
flowed  from  the  spot  where  Asgeelo  had 
disappeared,  extending  in  successive  con- 
centric circles,  and  radiating  in  long  un- 
dulations far  and  wide.  Louis  and  Frank 
waited  in  deep  suspense.  Asgeelo  re- 
mained long  beneath  the  water,  but  to 
them  the  time  seemed  frightijl  in  its 
duration.  Profound  anxiety  began  to 
mingle  v/ith  the  suspense,  for  fear  lest 
the  faithful  servant  in  his  devotion  had 
overrated  his  powers — lest  the  disuse  of 
his  early  practice  had  weakened  his 
skill — lest  the  weight  bound  to  his  foot 
had  dragged  him  down  and  kept  him 
there  forever. 

At  last,  when  the  susr  cnse  had  become 
intolerable  and  the  two  had  already  begun 
to  exchange  glances  almost  of  despair,  a 
plash  was  heard,  and  Asgeelo  emerged 
far  to  the  right.  He  struck  out  strongly 
toward  the  boat,  which  was  at  once 
rowed  toward  him.  In  a  few  minutes  he 
was  taken  in.  He  diu  not  appear  to  be 
much  exhausted. 

He  had  seen  nothing. 

They  then  rowed  about  a  hundred 
yards  further,  and  Asgeelo  prepared  to 
descend  once  more.  He  squeezed  tlie 
oil  out  of  the  sponge  and  renewed  it 
again.  But  this  time  he  took  a  knife  in 
his  hand. 

"  What  is  that  for?  "  asked  Frank  and 
Louis. 

"  Sharks  !  "  answered  Cato,  in  a  terri- 
ble tone. 

At  this  Louis  and  Frank  exchanj,red 
glances.  Cculd  they  let  this  devoted 
servant  thus  tempt  so  terrible  a  death  ? 

"  Did  ycu  see  any  sharks  ?  "  asked 
Louis. 


THE    OCEAN    DEPTHS 


143 


"  No,  Sahib." 

"  Why  do  you  fear  them,  then  ?  " 

"  I  don't  fear  them.  Sahib." 

"Why  do  you  take  this  knife  ?  " 

"  One  may  come,  Sahib." 

After  some  hesitation  Asgeelo  was 
allowed  to  go.  As  before  he  plunged 
into  the  water,  and  remained  underneath 
quite  as  lonj-  ;  but  now  they  had  become 
familiarized  with  his  powers  and  the 
suspense  was  not  so  dreadful.  At  the 
expiration  of  the  usual  time  he  reappeared, 
and  on  being  taken  into  the  boat  he  again 
announced  that  he  had  seen  nothing. 

They  now  rowed  a  hundred  yards 
farther  on  ij;  the  same  direction,  toward 
the  east,  and  Asgeelo  made  another 
descent.  He  came  back  with  the  same 
result. 

It  began  to  grow  discouraging,  but 
Asgeelo  was  not  yet  fatigued,  and  they 
tiierefore  determined  to  let  him  work  as 
long  as  he  was  able.  He  went  down 
seven  times  more.  They  still  kept  the 
boat  on  toward  the  east  till  the  line  of 
"  needles "  on  the  sand  island  had 
become  thrown  farther  apart  and  stood 
at  long  distances.  Asgeelo  came  up  each 
time  unsuccessful. 

He  at  last  went  down  for  the  eleventh 
time.  They  were  talking  as  usual,  not 
expecting  that  he  would  reappear  for 
some  minutes,  when  suddenly  a  shout 
was  heard,  and  Asgeelo's  head  emerged 
from  the  water  not  more  than  twenty 
yards  from  the  boat.  He  was  swimming 
with  one  hand,  and  in  the  other  he  held 
an  uplifted  knife,  which  he  occasionally 
brandished  in  the  air  and  splashed  in  the 
water. 

Immediately  the  cause  of  this  became 

manifest.    Just  behind  him  a  sharp  black 

tin  appeared  cutting  the  surface  of  the 

water. 

It  was  a  shark!    But  the  monster,  a 


coward  like  all  his  tribe,  deterred  by  the 
plashing  of  the  water  made  by  Asgeelo, 
circled  round  him  and  hesitated  to  seize 
his  prey. 

The  moment  was  frightful.  Yet 
Asgeelo  appeared  not  in  the  least 
alarmed.  He  swam  slowly,  occasion- 
ally turning  his  head  and  watching  the 
monster,  seeming  by  his  easy  dexterity  to 
be  almost  as  much  in  his  imtive  element 
as  his  pursuer,  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on 
him  and  holding  his  knife  in  a  firm  clasp. 
The  knife  was  a  long,  keen  blade,  which 
Asgeelo  had  c  I'^ried  with  him  for  years. 

Louis  and  Frank  could  do  nothing. 
A  pistol  ball  could  not  reach  this  mon- 
ster, who  kept  himself  untier  the  water, 
where  a  ball  would  be  spent  before  strik- 
ing him  if  indeed  any  aim  could  direct  a 
bullet  toward  that  swift  darting  figure. 
They  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  look  on 
in  an  agony  of  horror. 

Asgeelo,  compelled  to  watch,  to  guard, 
to  splash  the  water,  and  to  turn  fre- 
quently, made  but  a  slow  passage  over 
those  twenty  yards  which  separated  him 
from  the  boat.  At  last  it  seemed  as  if 
he  chose  to  sIrv  there.  It  seemed  to 
those  who  watched  him  with  such  awful 
horror  that  he  might  have  escaped  had 
he  chosen,  but  that  he  had  some  idea 
of  voluntarily  encounvC'ing  the  monster. 
This  became  evident  at  kst,  as  the  shark 
pcvssed  before  him,  wh^n  they  saw 
Asgeelo's  face  turned  to  t^ard  it ;  a  face 
full  of  fierce  hate  and  ve  igeance ;  a  face 
such  as  one  turns  toward  some  mortal 
enemy. 

He  made  a  quick,  fierce  stroke  with  his 
long  knife.  The  shark  gave  a  leap  up- 
ward. The  water  was  tinged  with  blood. 
The  next  moment  Asgeelo  went  down. 

"  What  now  ?  "  was  the  thought  of  the 

brothers.     Had  he  been  dragged  down  ? 

1  Impossible  !    And  yet  it  seemed  equally 


..t;  •«» 


Houm 

■I  t'liwoirii, 

«J 

"■■•-J, 


Ji i 


f''' 

""';Sfi« 

HHl'"*"  •' 


144 


CORD   AND  CREE»E 


c 
c: 


c 
c 

c 


f ... 

t  '»««. 

^    .«-» 
«i«I. 

♦    -.w,^ 

impossible  that  he  could  have  gone  down 
of  his  own  accord. 

In  a  moment  their  suspense  was  ended. 
A  white  flash  appeared  near  the  surface. 
The  next  instant  a  dark  sinewy  arm 
emerged  from  beneath,  armed  with  a  long, 
keen  knife,  which  seemed  to  tear  down 
with  one  tremendous  stroke  that  white, 
shining  surface. 

It  was  Asgeelo's  head  that  emerged  in 
a  sea  of  blood  and  foam.  Triumph  was 
in  his  dark  face,  as  with  one  hand  he 
waved  his  knife  exultantly. 

A  few  moments  afterward  the  form  of  a 
gigantic  shi  rk  floated  upward  to  the  sur- 
face, dyeing  fhe  sea  with  the  blood  which 
had  issued  from  the  stroke  dealt  by 
Asgeelo.  Not  yet,  however,  was  the 
vindictive  fury  of  the  Hindu  satiated. 
He  swam  up  to  it.  He  dashed  his  knife 
over  and  over  the  white  belly  till  it  be- 
came a  hideous  mass  of  gaping  entrails. 
Then  he  came  into  the  boat. 

He  sat  down,  a  hideous  figure.  Blood 
covered  his  tawny  face,  and  the  fury  of 
his  rage  had  not  left  the  features. 

The  strength  which  this  man  had 
shown  was  tremendous,  yet  his  quickness 
and  agility,  even  in  the  water,  had  been 
commensurate  with  his  strength.  Bran- 
don had  once  seen  proofs  of  his  courage 
in  the  dead  bodies  of  the  Maiay  pirates 
which  lay  around  him  in  the  cabin  of 
that  ill-fated  Chinese  ship ;  but  all  that 
he  had  done  then  was  not  tci  be  compared 
to  this. 

They  could  not  help  asking  him  why 
he  had  not  at  once  made  his  escape  to 
the  boat,  instead  of  staying  to  fight  the 
monster. 

Asgeelo's  look  was  as  gloomy  as  death 
as  he  replied  : 

"  They  tore  in  pieces  my  son.  Sahib — 
my  only  son — when  he  first  went  down, 
and   I  have  to  avenge  him.     I  killed  a 


hundred  on  the  Malabar  coast  before  I 
left  it  forever.  That  shark  did  not  attack 
me ;  I  attacked  him." 

"  If  you  saw  one  now  would  you  attack 
him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Sahib." 

Brandon  expressed  some  apprehension, 
and  wished  him  not  to  risk  his  life. 

But  Asgeelo  explained  that  a  shark 
could  be  successfully  encountered  by  a 
skilful  swimmer.  The  shark  is  long, 
and  has  to  move  about  in  a  circle  which 
is  comparatively  large;  he  is  also  a 
coward,  and  a  good  swimmer  can  strike 
him  if  he  only  chooses.  He  again  re- 
peated triumphantly  that  he  had  killed 
more  than  a  hundred  to  avenge  his 
son. 

In  his  last  venture  Asgeelo  had  been 
no  more  successful  than  before.  Needle 
Island  was  now  to  the  southwest,  and 
Brandon  thought  that  their  only  chance 
was  to  try  farther  over  toward  the  west, 
where  they  had  not  yet  explored. 

They  rowed  at  once  back  to  the  point 
from  which  they  had  set  out,  and  then 
went  on  about  a  hundred  and  fiftj-  yards 
to  the  west.  From  this  place,  as  they 
looked  toward  the  islet,  the  three  rocks 
seemed  so  close  together  that  they 
appeared  blended,  and  the  three  sharp, 
needlelike  points  appeared  to  issue  from 
one  common  base.  This  circumstance 
had  an  encouraging  effect,  for  it  seemed 
to  the  brothers  as  though  their  ancestor 
might  have  looked  upon  those  rocks  from 
this  point  of  view  rather  than  from  any 
other  which  had  as  yet  come  upon  the 
field  of  their  observation. 

This  time  Brandon  himself  resolved  to 
go  down  ;  partly  because  he  though  that 
Asgeelo  had  worked  long  enough,  and 
ought  not  to  be  exhausted  on  that  first 
day,  and  partly  on  account  of  an  'ntolcr- 
able  impatience,  and  an  eagerness  to  see 


THE   OCEAN    DEPTHS 


MS 


for  himself  rather   than  entrust    it    to 
others. 

There  was  the  horror  of  the  shark, 
which  might  have  deterred  any  other 
man.  It  was  a  danger  which  he  had 
never  taken  into  account.  But  the  re- 
solve of  his  soul  was  stronger  than  any 
fear,  and  he  determined  to  face  even  this 
danger.  If  he  lost  his  life,  he  was  indif- 
ferent. Let  it  go !  Life  was  not  so 
precious  to  him  as  to  some  others. 
Fearless  by  nature,  he  was  ordinarily 
ready  to  run  risks ;  but  now  the  thing 
that  drew  him  onward  was  so  vast  in  its 
importance  that  he  was  willing  to  en- 
counter peril  of  any  kind. 

Frank  was  aware  of  the  full  extent  of 
this  new  danger,  but  he  said  nothing, 
nor  did  he  attempt  in  any  way  to  dis- 
suade his  brother.  He  himself,  had  he 
been  able,  would  have  gone  down  in  his 
place ;  but  as  he  was  not  able,  he  did 
not  suppose  that  his  brother  would 
hesitate. ' 

The  apparatus  was  in  the  boat.  The 
pumping-machine  was  in  the  stern  ;  and 
this,  with  the  various  signal-ropes,  was 
managed  by  Frank.  Asgeelo  rowed. 
These  arrangemerits  had  long  since  been 
made,  and  they  had  practised  in  this 
way  on  the  Hudson  River. 

Silently  Brandon  put  on  his  diving 
armor.  The  ropes  and  tubes  were  all 
carefully  arranged.  The  usual  weight 
was  attached  to  his  bell,  and  he  was 
slowly  lowered  down  to  the  bottom  of 
the  sea. 

The  bottom  of  the  ocean  was  coMposed 
of  a  smooth,  even  surface  of  fine  sand 
and  eravel,  along  which  Brandon  moved 
witl'out  difficulty.  The  cumbrous  armor 
of  the  diver,  which  on  land  is  so  heavy, 
beneath  the  water  loses  its  excessive 
weight,  and  by  steadying  the  wearer 
assists  him  to  walk.     The  water  was 


marvellously  transparent,  as  is  usually  the 
case  in  the  southern  seas,  and  through 
the  glass  plate  in  his  helmet  Brandon 
could  look  forward  to  a  greater  distance 
than  was  possible  in  the  Hudson. 

Overhead  he  could  see  the  bottom  of 
the  boat,  as  it  floated  and  moved  on  in 
the  direction  which  he  wished  ;  signals, 
which  were  communicated  by  a  rope 
which  he  held  in  his  hand,  told  them 
whether  to  go  forward  or  backward,  to 
the  right  or  to  the  left,  or  to  stop  alto- 
gether. Practice  had  enabled  him  to 
command,  and  them  to  obey,  with  ease. 

Down  in  the  depths  to  which  he  had 
descended  the  water  was  always  still,  and 
the  storms  that  affected  the  surface  never 
penetrated  there.  Brandon  learned  this 
from  the  delicate  shells  and  the  still  more 
delicate  forms  of  marine  plants  which 
lay  at  his  feet,  so  fragile  in  their  struc- 
ture, and  so  delicately  poised  in  their 
position,  that  they  must  have  formed 
themselves  in  deep,  dead  stillness  and 
absolute  motionlessness  of  waters.  The 
v^ry  movement  which  was  caused  by  his 
passage  displaced  them  in  all  directions, 
and  cast  them  down  everywhere  in  ruins. 
Here,  in  such  depths  as  these,  if  the 
sounding  lead  is  cast  it  brings  up  these 
fragile  shells,  and  shows  to  the  observer 
what  profound  calm  must  exist  here,  far 
away  beneath  the  ordinary  vision  of  man. 

Practice  had  enabled  Brandon  to  move 
with  much  ease.  His  breathing  was 
without  difficulty.  The  first  troubles 
arising  from  breathing  this  confined  air 
had  long  since  been  surmounted.  One 
tube  ran  down  from  the  boat,  through 
which  the  fresh  air  was  pushed,  and  an- 
other tube  ran  up  a  little  d.  nee, 
through  which  the  air  passed  and  leti  it 
in  myriad  bubbles  that  ascended  to  the 
surface. 

He  walked  on,  and  soon  came  to  a 


,„,„..«««■ 

,1. 


'tt'Mww.iill 


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P; 

■I,,,ll»«tl 


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146 


CORD    AND    CREESE 


■i 


C! 

c: 
c; 


c: 
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'    HIMii         'I 

If    ' 


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i 


:  WW,    a 

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place  where  things  changed  their  appear- 
ance. Hard  sand  was  here,  and  on  every 
side  there  arose  curiously  shaped  coral 
structures,  which  resembled  more  than 
anything  else  a  leafless  forest.  These 
coral  treelike  forms  twisted  their 
branches  in  strange  involutions,  and  in 
some  places  formed  a  perfect  barrier  of 
interlaced  arms,  so  that  he  was  forced  to 
make  a  detour  in  order  to  avoid  them. 
The  chief  fear  here  was  that  his  tube 
might  get  entangled  among  some  of  the 
loftier  straggling  branches,  and  impede 
or  retard  his  progress.  To  avoid  this 
caused  much  delay. 

Now,  among  the  coral  rocks,  the  vegeta- 
tion of  the  lower  sea  !)egan  to  appear 
of  more  vivid  colors  and  of  far  greater 
variety  than  any  which  he  had  ever  seen. 
Here  were  long  plants  which  clung  to 
the  coral-like  ivy,  seeming  to  be  a  species 
of  marine  parasite,  and  as  it  grew  it 
throve  more  luxuriantly.  Here  were 
some  which  threw  out  long  arms,  termi- 
nating in  vast,  broad,  palmlike  leaves, 
the  arms  intertwined  among  the  coral 
branches  and  the  leaves  hanging  down- 
ward. Here  were  long  streamers  of  fine, 
silklike  strings,  that  were  suspended 
from  many  a  projecting  branch,  and  hil- 
locks of  spongy  substance  that  looked 
like  moss.  Here,  too,  were  plants  which 
threw  forth  long  ribbonlike  leaves  of 
variegated  color. 

It  was  a  forest  under  the  sea,  and  it 
grew  denser  at  every  step. 

At  last  his  progress  in  this  direction 
was  terminated  by  a  rock  which  came 
from  a  southerly  direction,  like  a  spur 
from  the  islands.  It  arose  to  a  height  of 
about  thirty  feet  overhead,  and  descended 
gradually  as  it  ran  north.  Brandon 
turned  aside,  and  walked  by  its  base  along 
its  entire  extent. 

At  its  termination  there  arose  a  long 


vista,  where  the  ground  ascended  and  an 
opening  appeared  through  this  marine 
"  forest."  On  each  side  the  involuted 
corals  flung  their  twisted  arms  in  more 
curious  and  intricate  folds.  The  vegeta- 
tion was  denser,  more  luxuriant,  and  moie 
varied.  Beneath  him  was  a  growth  of 
tender  substance,  hairy  in  texture,  and 
of  a  delicate  green  color,  which  looked 
more  like  lawn  grass  of  the  upper  world 
than  anything  else  in  nature. 

Brandon  walked  on,  and  even  in  the 
intense  desire  of  his  soul  to  find  what  he 
sought  he  felt  himself  overcome  by  the 
sublime  influence  of  this  submarine  world. 
He  seemed  to  have  intruded  into  some 
other  sphere,  planting  his  rash  footsteps 
where  no  foot  of  man  had  trodden  before, 
and  using  the  resources  of  science  to 
violate  the  hallowed  secrecy  of  awful  na- 
ture in  her  most  hidden  retreats.  Here, 
above  all  things,  his  soul  was  oppressed 
by  the  universal  silence  around.  Through 
that  thick  helmet,  indeed,  no  sound  under 
a  clap  of  thunder  could  be  heard,  and 
the  ringing  of  his  ears  would  of  itself 
have  prevented  consciousness  of  any  other 
noise,  yet  none  the  less  was  he  aware  of 
the  awful  stillness  ;  it  was  silence  that 
could  be  felt.  In  the  sublimity  of  that 
lonely  pathway  he  felt  what  Hercules  is 
imagined  to  have  felt  when  passing  to 
the  underworld  after  Cerberus, 

Stupent  ubi  iindae  segne  torpescit  fretum, 

and  half  expected  to  hear  some  voice 
from  the  dweller  in  this  place  : 

"  Quo  pergis  audax  ?  Siste  proserentem  gradutn." 

There  came  to  him  only  such  dwellers 
as  belonged  to  the  place.  He  saw  them 
as  he  moved  along.  He  saw  them  dart- 
ing out  from  the  hidden  penetralia  around, 
moving  swiftly  across  and  sometimes 
darting  in    shoals    before    him.     They 


THE    OCEAN    DEPTHS 


147 


scit  fretum, 


r  some  voice 


ntem  gradum." 


'  r» 


began  to  appear  in  such  vast  numbers 
that  Brandon  thought  of  that  monster 
which  lay  a  mangled  heap  upon  the  sur- 
face above,  and  fancied  that  perhaps  his 
kindred  were  here  waiting  to  avenge  his 
death.  As  this  fear  came  full  and  well 
defined  before  him  he  drew  from  his  belt 
the  knife  which  Asgeelo  had  given  him, 
and  Frank  had  urged  him  to  take,  feeling 
himself  less  helpless  if  he  held  this  in  his 
hand. 

The  fishes  moved  about  him,  coming 
on  in  new  and  more  startled  crowds, 
some  dashing  past,  others  darting  up- 
ward, and  others  moving  swiftly  ahead. 
One  large  one  was  there  with  a  train  of 
followers,  which  moved  up  and  floated 
for  a  moment  directly  in  front  of  him,  its 
large,  staring  eyes  seeming  to  view  him 
in  wonder,  and  solemnly  working  its  gills. 
But  as  Brandon  came  close  it  gave  a 
sudden  turn  and  drrted  off  with  all  its 
attendants. 

At  last,  amid  all  these  wonders,  he 
saw  far  ahead  something  which  drove  all 
other  thoughts  away,  whether  of  fear,  or 
of  danger,  or  of  horror,  and  filled  all  his 
soul  with  an  overmastering  passion  of 
desire  and  hope. 

It  was  a  dark  object,  too  remote  as  yet 
to  be  distinctly  visible,  yet,  as  it  rose 
there,  his  fancy  seemed  to  trace  the  out- 
line of  a  ship,  or  what  might  once  have 
heen  a  ship.  The  presentation  of  his 
hope  before  him  thus,  in  what  seemed 
like  a  reality,  was  too  much.  He  stood 
still,  and  his  heart  beat  with  fierce 
tlirobs. 

The  hope  was  so  precious  that  for  a 
time  he  hesitated  to  advance,  for  fear  lest 
the  hope  might  be  dispelled  forever. 
And  then  to  fail  at  this  place,  after  so 
long  a  search,  when  he  seemed  to  have 
reached  the  end,  would  be  an  intolerable 
grief. 


There,  too,  was  that  strange  pathway 
which  seemed  made  on  purpose.  How 
came  it  there  ?  He  thought  that  perhaps 
the  object  .lying  before  him  might  have 
caused  some  current  which  set  in  there 
and  prevented  the  growth  of  plants  in 
that  place.  These  and  many  other 
thoughts  came  to  him  as  he  stood, 
unwilling  to  move. 

But  at  last  he  conquered  his  feelings, 
and  advanced.  Hope  grew  strong 
within  him.  He  thought  of  the  time  cn 
Coflfin  Island  when,  in  like  manner,  he 
had  hesitated  before  a  like  object. 
Might  not  this,  like  that,  turn  out  to  be 
a  ship  ?  And  now,  by  a  strange  revul- 
sion, all  his  feelings  urged  him  on  ;  hope 
was  strong,  suspense  unendurable. 
Whatever  that  object  was,  he  must 
know. 

It  might  indeed  be  a  rock.  He  had 
passed  one  shortly  before,  which  had 
gradually  declined  into  the  bottom  of  the 
sea  ;  this  might  be  a  continuation  of  the 
same,  which  after  an  interval  had  arisen 
again  from  the  bottom.  It  was  long 
and  high  at  one  end,  and  rounded  for- 
ward at  the  other.  Such  a  shape  was 
perfectly  natural  for  a  rock.  He  tried  to 
crush  down  hope,  so  as  to  be  prepared 
for  disappointment.  He  tried  to  con- 
vince himself  that  it  must  be  .t  rock,  and 
could  by  no  possibility  be  anything  else. 
Yet  his  efforts  were  totally  fruitless. 

Still  the  conviction  remained  that  it 
was  a  ship,  and  if  so,  it  could  be  no 
other  than   the  one   he  sought. 

As  he  went  on  all  the  marine  vegeta- 
tion ceased.  The  coral  rocks  continued 
no  further.  Now  all  around  the  bottom 
of  the  sea  was  flat,  and  covered  with 
fine  gravel  like  that  which  he  had 
touched  when  he  first  came  down.  The 
fishes  had  departed.  The  sense  of 
solemnity  left  him  ;  only  one  thing  was 


"'>!'' MIH  Hi 
,1  ..'i|ii»l> 

' '«ii!» 

'■  ,,<IH.II1| 

,..{|i,M.«. 

:;c::i 

f 

'""•""■"Ill, 

imtMi.i.nr-r' 


t,tlHl4^  .(' 
..II.,,,.. 

i :!■ 


■■It... 

'■"''"  B" 
■mti't  "1. . 

I „,,. , 

"IV. 

■'"■l.ll.lllt^ 

■'I'.iMWiHl 

;'i;;4iiiii»f 


148 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


C 

c: 


<:  .^ 
c 

h 

'   KM*     ' 


•  IK 


perceptible,  and  that  was  the  object 
toward  which  he  walked. 

And  now  he  felt  within  him  such  an 
uncontrollable  impulse  that  even  if  he 
had  wished  he  could  neither  have 
paused  nor  gone  back.  To  go  forward 
was  only  possible.  It  seemed  to  him  as 
though  some  external  influence  had 
penetrated  his  body,  and  forced  him 
to  move.  Again,  as  once  before,  he 
recalled  the  last  words  of  his  father, 
so  well  remembered  : 

"  If  in  that  other  world  to  which  I  am 
going  the  disembodied  spirit  can  assist 
man,  then  be  sure,  oh,  my  son,  I  will 
assist  you,  and  in  the  crisis  of  your  fate 
I  will  be  near,  if  it  is  only  to  communicate 
to  your  spirit  what  you  ought  to  do " 

It  was  Ralph  Brandon  who  had  said 
this.  Here  in  this  object  which  lay 
before  him,  if  it  were  indeed  the  ship, 
he  imagined  the  spirit  of  another  Ralph 
Brandon  present,  awaiting   him. 

Suddenly  a  dark  shadow  passed  over 
his  head,  which  forced  him  involuntarily 
to  look  up.  In  spite  of  his  excitement 
a  shudder  passed  through  him.  Far 
overhead,  at  the  surface  of  the  sea,  the 
boat  was  floating.  But  half-way  up 
were  three  dark  objects  moving  slowly 
and  lazily  along.     They  were  sharks. 

To  him,  in  his  loneliness  and  weak- 
ness, nothing  ever  seemed  so  menacing 
as  these  three  demons  of  the  deep  as  he 
stared  up  at  them.  Had  they  seen  him  ? 
that  was  now  his  thought.  He  clutched 
his  knife  in  a  firmer  hold,  feeling  all  the 
while  how  utterly  helpless  he  was,  and 
shrinking  away  into  himself  from  the 
terror  above.  The  monsters  moved 
leisurely  about,  at  one  time  grazing  the 
tube,  and  sending  down  a  vibration  which 
thrilled  like  an  electric  shock  through  him. 
For  a  moment  he  thought  that  they  were 
malignantly    tormenting    him,  and   had 


done  this  on  purpose  in  order  to  send 
down  to  him  a  message  of  his  fate. 

He  waited. 

The  time  seemed  endless.  Yet  at  last 
the  end  came.  The  sharks  could  not 
have  seen  him,  fi  r  they  gradually  moved 
away  until  they  were  out  of  sight. 

Brandon  did  not  dare  to  advance  for 
some  time.  Y-i  now,  since  the  spell  of 
this  presence  was  removed,  his  horror 
left  him,  and  his  former  hope  animated 
all  his  soul. 

There  lay  that  object  before  him. 
Could  he  advance  again  after  that  warn- 
ing? Dared  he?  This  new  realm  into 
which  he  had  ventured  had  indeed  those 
who  were  ready  and  able  to  inflict  a 
sudden  and  frightful  vengeance  upon  the 
••ash  intruder.  He  had  passed  safely 
among  the  horrors  of  the  coral  forest ; 
but  here,  on  this  plateau,  could  he  hope  to 
be  so  safe?  Might  not  the  slightest 
movement  on  his  part  create  a  disturb- 
ance v>f  water  sufficient  to  awaken  tlie 
attention  of  those  departed  enemies  and 
bring  them  back? 

This  was  his  fear.  But  hope,  and  a 
resolute  will,  and  a  determination  to  risk 
all  on  this  last  hazard,  alike  impelled  him 
on.  Danger  now  lay  everywhere,  above 
as  well  as  below.  An  advance  was  not 
more  perilous  than  an  ascent  to  the  boat, 
Taking  comfort  from  this  last  thought  he 
moved  onward  with  a  steady,  determined 
step. 

Hope  grew  stronger  as  he  drew  nearer. 
The  dark  juass  gradually  formed  itself 
into  a  more  distinct  outline.  The  uncer- 
tain lines  became  defined  into  more  cer- 
tain shape,  and  a  resemblance  to  a  ship 
became  greater  and  greater.  He  could 
no  longer  resist  the  conviction  that  this 
must  be  a  ship. 

Still  he  tried  feebly  to  prepare  for  dis- 
appointment, and  made  faint  fancies  as  to 


THE    OCEAN    DEPTHS 


149 


:nemies  and 


the  reason  why  a  rock  should  be  formed 
licre  in  this  shape.  All  the  time  he 
scouted  those  fancies  and  felt  assured 
that  it  was  not  a  rock. 

Nearer  and  nearer.  Doubt  no  longer 
remained.  He  stood  close  beside  it.  It 
was  indeed  a  ship!  Its  sides  rose  higli 
overhead.  Its  lofty  stern  stood  up  like  a 
tower,  after  the  fashion  of  the  ship  of  the 
days  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  The  masts  had 
fallen  and  lay,  encumbered  with  the  rig- 
ging, over  the  side. 

Brandon  walked  all  around  it,  his  heart 
beating  fast,  seeing  at  every  step  some 
new  proof  that  this  must  be  no  other,  by 
any  conceivable  possibility,  than  the  one 
which  he  sought.  On  reaching  the  bows 
he  saw  the  outline  of  a  bird  carved  for 
the  figurehead,  and  knew  that  this  must 
be  the  Phoenix. 

He  walked  around.  The  bottom  was 
sandy,  and  the  ship  had  settled  down  to 
some  depth.  Her  sides  were  covered 
with  fine  dark  shells,  like  an  incrustation, 
to  a  depth  of  an  inch,  mingled  with  a 
short  growth  of  a  green,  slimy  sea-weed. 

At  last  he  could  delay  no  longer.  One 
of  the  masts  lay  over  the  side,  and  this 
afforded  an  easy  way  by  which  he  could 
clamber  upward  upon  the  deck. 

In  a  few  moments  Brandon  stood  upon 
the  deck  of  the  Phoenix, 

The  ship  had  thus  lain  here  through 
centuries,  saturated  with  water  that  had 
penetrated  to  its  inmost  fibre,  still  held 
together  sturdily.  Beneath  the  sea  the 
water  itself  acted  as  a  preservative,  and 
retarded  or  prevented  decay.  Brandon 
looked  around  as  he  stood  there,  and  the 
light  that  came  from  above,  where  the 
surface  of  the  sea  was  now  much  nearer 
than  before,  showed  him  all  the  extent 
of  the  ship. 

The  beams  which  supported  the  deck 
had  lost  their  stiffness  and  sunk  down- 


ward ;  the  masts,  as  before  stated,  had 
toppled  over  for  the  same  reason,  yielding 
to  their  own  Vvcight,  which,  as  the  vessel 
was  slightly  on  one  side,  had  gradually 
borne  them  down  ;  the  bowsprit  also  had 
faiien.  The  hatchways  had  yielded,  and, 
giving  way,  had  sunk  down  within  the 
hold.  The  doors  which  led  into  the 
cabin  in  the  lofty  poop  were  lying  pros- 
trate on  the  deck.  The  large  skylight 
which  once  had  stood  there  had  also  fol- 
lowed the  same  fate. 

Before  going  down  Brandon  had 
arranged  a  signal  to  send  to  Frank  in 
Ci  se  he  found  the  ship.  In  his  excitement 
he  had  not  yet  given  it.  Before  ventur- 
ing further  he  thought  of  this.  But  he 
decided  not  to  give  the  signal.  The 
idea  came,  and  was  rejected  amid  a 
world  of  varying  hopes  and  fears.  He 
thought  Ihat  if  he  was  successful  he 
himself  would  be  the  best  messenger  of 
success;  and,  if  not,  he  would  be  the 
best  messenger  of  evil. 

He  advanced  towaid  the  cabin.  Turn- 
ing away  from  chi;  door  he  clambered 
upon  the  poop,  and,  looking  down,  tried 
to  see  what  Oepth  there  might  be  be- 
neath. He  saw  something  which  looked 
as  though  it  had  once  been  a  table. 
Slowly  and  cautiously  he  let  himself 
down  through  the  opening,  and  his  feet 
touched  bottom.  He  moved  downward, 
and  let  his  feet  slide  till  they  touched  the 
floor. 

He  was  within  the  cabin. 

The  light  here  was  almost  equal  to 
that  without,  for  the  skylight  was  very 
wide.  The  floor  was  sunken  in  like  the 
fleck  of  the  ship.  He  looked  around  to 
see  where  he  might  'irst  search  for  the 
treasure.  Suddenly  his  eye  caught  sight 
of  something  which  drove  away  every 
other  thought. 

At  one  end  was  a  seat,  and  there. 


, B"""' 

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propped  up  a^^ainst  the  wall,  was  a  skele- 
ton in  a  sitting  posture.  Around  it  was  a 
belt  with  a  sword  attached.  The  figure 
had  partly  twisted  itself  round,  but  its 
head  and  shoulders  were  so  propped  up 
against  the  wall  that  it  could  not  fall. 

Brandon  advanced,  filled  with  a  thou- 
sand emotions.  One  hand  was  lying 
down  in  front.  He  lifted  it.  There  was 
a  gold  ring  on  the  bony  finger,  tie  took 
it  off.  In  the  dim  light  he  saw,  cut  in 
bold  relief  on  this  seal-ring,  the  crest  of 
his  family — a  Phoenix. 

It  was  his  ancestor  himself  who  was 
bel'^'-e  him. 

Here  he  had  calmly  taken  his  scat  when 
the  ship  was  settlin;;  slowly  down  into 
the  embrace  of  the  waters.  Ileit  he  had 
taken  his  scut,  calmly  and  sternly,  await- 
ing his  death — perhaps  with  a  feeling  of 
grim  triumph  that  he  could  thus  elude 
his  foes.  This  was  the  man,  and  this  the 
hand  which  had  written  the  message  that 
had  drawn  the  descendant  here. 

Such  were  the  thoughts  that  passed 
through  Brandon's  mind.  He  put  'he 
ring  on  his  own  finger  and  turned  away. 
His  ancestor  had  summoned  him  hither, 
and  here  he  was.  Where  was  the  treas- 
ure that  was  promised  ? 

Brandon's  impatience  now  rose  to  a 
fever.  Only  one  thought  filled  his  mind. 
All  aroimd  the  cabin  were  little  rooms, 
into  each  of  which  he  looked.  The  doors 
had  all  fallen  away.  Yet  'ie  saw  nothing 
in  any  of  them. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  in  deep  doubt. 
Where  could  he  look  ?  Could  he  venture 
down  into  the  dark  hold  and  explore  ? 
How  could  he  hope  to  find  anyihing 
there,  amid  the  ruins  of  that  interior 
where  guns  and  chains  lay,  perhaps  all 
mingled  together  v/here  they  had  fallen  ? 
It  would  need  a  lonjjer  time  to  find  it 
than  he  had  at  first  supposed.    Yet  would 


he  falter?  No  !  Rather  than  give  up  he 
would  pass  years  here,  till  ne  had  dismcin 
bered  ♦  .e  whole  ship  and  strewn  eviiy 
particle  of  her  piecemeal  over  the  bottom 
of  the  sea.  Yet  he  had  hoped  to  solve 
the  whole  mystery  at  the  first  visit ;  aiul 
now,  since  he  saw  no  sign  of  anything 
like  treasure,  he  was  for  a  while  at  a  loss 
what  to  do. 

His  ancestor  had  summoned  him,  and 
he  had  come.  Where  was  the  treasure? 
Where  ?  Why  could  not  that  figuie 
arise  and   show   him  ? 

Such  were  his  thoughts.  Yet  these 
thoughts,  the  result  of  excitement  that 
was  now  a  frenzy,  soon  gave  rise  to  others 
ihat  v/ere  calmer. 

He  reflected  that  perhaps  some  other 
feeling  than  what  he  had  at  first  imagined 
might  have  inspired  that  grim  old  Eng- 
lishman  when  he  took  his  seat  here  and 
chose  to  drown  on  that  seat  rather  than 
10V2  av/ay.  Some  other  feeling,  and 
what  feeling?  Some  feeling  which  must 
have  been  the  strongest  in  his  heart. 
What  was  that  ?  The  one  which  liad 
inspired  the  message,  the  desire  to  secure 
still  more  that  treasure  for  which  he  liad 
toiled  and  fought.  His  last  act  was  to 
send  the  message;  why  should  he  not 
have  still  borne  that  thought  in  his  mind 
and  carried  it  till  he  died  ? 

The  skeleton  was  at  one  end,  supported 
by  the  wall.  Two  posts  projected  on 
each  side.  A  heavy  oaken  chair  stood 
there,  which  had  once  perhaps  been  fas- 
tened to  the  floor.  Brandon  thought  that 
he  would  first  examir:  that  wall.  Per- 
haps the'-e  m'ght  be  some  opening  'iieie, 

He  took  the  skeleton  in  his  arms 
reverently,  and  proceeded  to  lift  it  from 
the  chair.  Fe  could  r.ot.  He  lo(  ked 
more  narrowly,  and  saw  a  cha'n  which 
had  been  fastened  around  it  and  bound  it 
to  the  chair. 


THE    OCEAN    DEPTHS 


151 


What  was  the  meaning  of  this  ?  Had 
the  crew  mutinied,  bound  the  captain, 
ami  run  ?  Had  the  Spaniards  seized  the 
ship  after  all?  H:u|  they  recovered  the 
.s|)oil,  and  punished  in  ihis  way  the 
plunderer  of  three  galleons,  by  binding 
him  here  to  the  chair,  scuttling  the  ship 
and  sending  him  down  to  the  bottom  of 
the  sea? 

Tiie  idea  of  the  possibility  of  this  made 
Hrandon  sick  with  anxiety.  He  pulled 
the  chair  away,  put  it  on  one  side,  and 
began  to  examine  the  wooden  wall  by 
running  his  hand  along  it.  There  was 
nothing  whatever  perceptible.  The  wall 
was  on  the  side  farthest  from  the  stern, 
and  almost  amidships.  He  pounded  it, 
and,  by  the  feeling,  knew  that  it  was 
hollow  behind.  He  walked  to  the  door 
which  was  on  one  side,  and  passed  in 
behind  this  very  wall.  There  was  nothing 
there.  It  had  once  perhaps  been  used  as 
part  of  the  cabin.  He  came  back  dis- 
consolately, and  stood  on  the  very  place 
where  the  chair  had  been. 

1 

"  Let  me  be  calm,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  This  enterprise  is  hopeless.  Yes,  the 
Spaniards  captured  the  ship,  recovered 
the  treasure,  and  drowned  my  ancestor. 
Let  me  not  be  deceived.  Let  me  cast 
away  hope,  and  search  here  without  any 
idle  expectation." 

Suddenly,  as  he  thought,  he  felt  the 
floor  gradually  giving  way  beneath  him. 
lie  started,  but  before  he  could  move  or 
even  think  in  what  direction  to  go  the 
floor  sank  in,  and  he  at  once  sank  with  it 
f'ownward. 

Had  it  not  been  that  the  tube  was 
of  ample  extent,  and  had  been  carefully 
managed  so  as  to  guard  against  any 
abrupt  descent  among  rocks  atthebotton. 
of  the  sea,  this  sudden  fall  might  havv, 
ended  Brandon's  career  forever.  As 
it  was  he  only  sank  quickly,  but  without 


accident,  until  his  breast  was  on  a  level 
with  the  cabin  floor. 

In  a  moment  the  truth   flashed  upon 
him.    He  had  been  standing  on  a  trap- 
door which  opened  from  the  cabin  floor 
into   the   hold   of  the   ship.      Over  this 
trap-door  old  Ralph  Brandon  had  seated 
and  bound  himself.     Was  it  to  guard  the 
treasure  ?    Was  it  that  he  might  await 
his  descendant,  and  thus  silently  indicate 
to  him  the  place  where  he  must  look.'' 
I      And  now  the  fever  of  Brandon's  con- 
flicting hope  and  fear  grew  more  intense 
I  than  it  had  ever  yet  been   through  all 
this  day  of  days.      He    stooped   down 
to  feel  what   it   was  that  lay  under  his 
!  feet.    His  hands  grasped  something,  the 
I  very  touch  of  which  sent  a  thrill  sharp 
!  and   sudden  through  every  fibre  of  his 
I  being. 

They  %vere  metallic  bars  ! 
He  rose  up  again  overcome.  He 
hardly  dared  to  take  one  up  so  as  to  see 
what  it  might  be.  For  the  actual  sight 
would  realize  hope  or  destroy  it  forever. 
Once  more  he  stooped  down.  In  a 
sort  of  fury  he  grasped  a  bar  in  each 
hand  and  raised  it  up  to  the  light. 

Down  under  the  sea  the  action  of 
water  had  not  destroyed  the  color  of 
those  bars  which  he  held  up  in  the  dim 
light  that  came  through  the  waters.  The 
dull  yellow  of  those  rough  ingots  seemed 
to  gleam  with  dazzling  brightness  before 
his  bewildered  eyes,  and  filled  his  whole 
soul  with  a  torrent  of  rapture  and  of 
triumph. 

His  emotions  overcame  him.  The  bars 
of  gold  fell  down  from  his  trembling 
hands.  He  sank  back  and  leaned  against 
the  wall. 

But  what  was  it  that  lay  under  his  feet  ? 
What  were  all  these  bars?  Were  they 
all  gold  ?  Was  this  indeed  all  here — the 
plunder  of  the  Spanish  treasure  ships — 


i.MBimti 
«••» 

'■■:> 

,..J 
;  JiliMii 
.  .iixiaii 


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IS* 


COKI)    AND    CKEESE 


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If 

ih 

u 

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»• 

!" 

M 

u 

I. 

the  wealth  which  might  purchase  a  king- 
dom—the treasure  equal  to  an  empire's 
revenue — the  gold  and  jewels  in  countless 
store  ? 

A  few  moments  of  respite  were  needed 
in  order  to  overcome  the  tremendous 
conflict  of  feeling  which  raged  within  his 
breast.  Then  once  more  he  stooped 
down.  His  outstretched  hand  felt  overall 
this  space  which  thus  was  piled  up  with 
treasure. 

It  was  about  four  feet  square.  The 
ingots  lay  in  the  centre.  Around  the 
sides  were  boxes.  One  of  these  he  took 
out.  It  was  made  of  thick  oaken  plank, 
and  was  about  ten  inches  long  and  eight 
wide.  The  rusty  nails  gave  but  little 
resistance,  and  the  iron  bands  which 
once  bound  them  peeled  off  at  a  touch. 
He  opened  the  box. 

Inside  was  a  casket. 

He  tore  open  the  casket. 

//  was  filled  with  jewels  ! 

His  work  was  ended.  No  more  search, 
no  more  fear.     He  bound  the  casket 


tightly  to  the  end  of  the  signal-line,  added 
to  it  a  bar  of  gold,  and  clambered  to  tlic 
deck. 

He  cast  off  the  weight  that  was  at  liis 
waist,  which  he  also  fastened  to  the  IIul', 
and  let  it  go. 

Freed  from  the  weight  he  rose  buoy- 
antly to  the  top  of  the  water. 

The  boat  pulled  rapidly  toward  him 
and  took  him  in.  As  he  removed  his 
helmet  he  saw  Frank's  eyes  fixed  on  his 
in  mute  enquiry.  His  face  was  ashen,  his 
lips  bloodless. 

Louis  smiled. 

"  Heavens  !  "  cried  Frank,  "  can  it 
be?" 

"  Pull  up  the  signal-line  and  see  for 
yourself,"  was  the  answer. 

And,  as  Frank  pulled,  Louis  uttered  a 
cry  which  made  him  look  up. 

Louis  pointed  to  the  sun.  "Good 
God  !  what  a  time  I  must  have  been 
down ! " 

"Time!"  said  Frank.  "Don't  say 
time — it  was  eternity  I " 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


-EATRICE'S  JOURNAL 


11 

s 

iili 


Brandon  Hall. 
September  i,  1848. — Paolo  Langhetti 
used  to  say  that  it  was  useful  to  keep  a 
diary  ;  not  one  from  day  to  day,  for  each 
day's  events  are  generally  trivial,  and 
therefore  not  worthy  of  record ;  but 
rather  a  statement  in  full  of  more  impor- 
tant events  in  one's  life's  which  may  be 
turned  to  in  later  years.  I  wish  I  had 
begun  this  sixteen  months  ago,  when 
I  first  came  here.    How  full  would  have 


been  my  melancholy  record  by  tliis 
time ! 

Where  shall  I  begin  ? 

Of  course,  with  my  arrival  here,  for 
that  is  the  time  when  we  separated, 
There  is  no  need  for  me  to  put  down  in 
writing  the  events  that  took  place  when 
he  was  with  me.  Not  a  word  that  he 
ever  spoke,  not  a  look  that  he  ever  gave, 
has  escaped  my  memory.  This  much  I 
may  set  down  here. 


HEATRICE  S   JOURNAL 


«53 


le  ever  gave, 


Alas !  the  shadow  of  the  African  forest 
fell  deeply  and  darkly  upon  ine.  Am  I 
stronger  than  other  women,  or  weaker  ? 
I  know  not.  Yet  I  can  be  calm  while  my 
heart  is  breaking.  Yes,  I  am  at  once 
stronger  and  weaker ;  so  weak  that  my 
heart  breaks,  so  strong  that  I  can  hide  it. 

I  wil'  begin  from  the  time  of  my  arrival 
here. 

I  came  knowing  well  who  the  man  was 
and  what  he  was  whom  I  had  for  my 
father.  I  came  with  every  word  of  that 
despairing  voyager  ringing  in  my  ears — 
that  cry  from  the  drifting  Vtshnu,  where 
Uespard  laid  down  to  die.  How  is  it 
that  his  very  name  thrills  through  me? 
1  am  nothing  to  him.  I  am  one  of  the 
hateful  brood  of  murderers.  A  Thug 
was  my  father — and  my  mother  who  ? 
Aiul  who  am  I,  and  what  ? 

At  least  my  soul  is  not  his,  though  I 
am  his  daughter.  My  soul  is  myself,  and 
life  on  earth  cannot  last  forever.  Here- 
after I  may  stand  where  that  man  may 
never  approach. 

How  can  I  ever  forget  the  first  sight 
which  I  had  of  my  father,  who  before  I 
saw  him  had  become  to  me  as  abhorrent 
as  a  demon  !  I  came  up  in  the  coach  to 
the  door  of  the  Hall  and  looked  out.  On 
the  broad  piazza  there  were  two  men, 
one  was  sitting,  the  other  standing. 

The  one  who  was  standing  was  some- 
what elderly,  with  a  broad,  fat  face, 
which  expressed  nothing  in  particular  but 
vulgar  good-nature.  He  was  dressed  in 
blac!:,  and  looked  like  a  serious  butler,  or 
perliaps  still  more  like  some  of  the  Dis- 
senting ministers  whom  I  have  seen.  He 
stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  look- 
ing at  me  with  a  vacant  smile. 

The  other  man  was  younger,  not  over 
thirty.  He  was  thin,  and  looked  pale 
from  dissipation.  His  face  was  covered 
with  spots,  his  eyes  were  gray,  his  eye- 


lashes white.  He  was  smoking  a  very 
large  pipe,  and  a  tumbler  of  some  kind  of 
diink  stood  on  the  stone  pavement  at  his 
feet.  He  stared  at  me  between  the  puffs 
of  his  pipe,  aiul  neither  moved  nor  spoke. 

If  I  had  not  already  touched  the  bitter- 
ness of  despair  I  should  have  tasted  it  as 
I  saw  these  men.  Something  told  me 
that  they  were  my  father  and  brother. 
My  very  soul  sickened  at  the  sight — the 
memory  of  Despard's  words  came  back — 
and  if  it  had  been  possible  to  have  felt 
any  tender  natural  affection  for  them,  this 
recollection  would  have  destroyed  it. 

"  I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Potts,'  said  I 
coldly. 

My  father  stared  at  me. 

"  I'm  Mr.  Potts,"  he  answered. 

"  I  am  Beatrice,"  said  I ;  "  I  have  just 
arrived  from  China." 

By  this  time  the  driver  had  opened  the 
door,  and  I  got  out  and  walked  up  on  the 
piazza. 

"Johnnie,"  exclaimed  my  father, "  what 
the  devil  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?  " 

"  Gad,  I  don't  know,"  returned  John, 
with  a  puff  of  smoke. 

"  Didn't  you  say  she  was  drowned  off 
the  African  coast  ?  " 

"  I  saw  so  in  the  newspapers." 

"  Didn't  you  tell  me  about  the  Falcon 
rescuing  her  from  the  pirates,  and  then 
getting  wrecked  with  all  on  board  .'  " 

"  Yes,  but  then  there  was  a  girl  that 
escaped." 

"  Oh,  ho! "  said  my  father,  with  a  long 
whistle.    "  I  didn't  know  that." 

He  turned  and  looked  at  me  hastily, 
but  in  deep  perplexity. 

"So  you  are  the  girl,  are  you?"  said 
he  at  last. 

"  I  am  your  daughter,"  I  answered. 

I  saw  him  look  at  John,  who  winked  in 
return. 

He  walked  up  and  down  for  a  few 


II 


.•'••••4 

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minutes,  and  at  last  stopped  and  looked 
at  me  again.  "That's  all  very  well," 
said  he  at  last,  "  hut  how  do  I  know  that 
you're  the  party  ?  Have  you  any  proof 
of  this?" 

"No." 

"  You  have  nothing  but  your  own 
statement  ?  " 

"No." 

"  And  you  may  be  an  impostor.  Mind 
you — I'm  a  magistrate — and  you'd  better 
be  careful." 

"  You  can  do  what  you  choose,"  said 
I  coldly. 

"  No,  I  can't.  In  this  country  a  man 
can't  do  what  he  chooses." 

I  was  silent. 

"Johnnie,"  said  my  father,  "  I'll  have 
to  leave  her  to  you.     You  arrange  it." 

John  looked  at  me  lazily,  still  smoking, 
and  for  some  time  said  nothing. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  he  at  last,  "  you've 
got  to  put  it  through.  You  began  •:, 
you  know.  You  would  send  for  her. 
I  never  saw  the  use  of  it." 

"  But  do  you  think  this  is  the  party  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say.  It  don't  make  any 
difference  any  way.  Nobody  would  take 
the  trouble  to  come  to  you  with  a  sham 
story." 

"  That's  a  fact,"  said  my  father. 

"  So  I  don't  see  but  you've  got  to  take 
her." 

"  Well,"  said  my  father,  "  if  you  think 
so,  why  all  right." 

"  I  don't  think  anything  of  the  kind," 
returned  John  snappishly.  "  I  only  think 
that  she's  the  party  you  sent  for." 

"  Oh,  well,  it's  all  the  same,"  said  my 
father,  who  then  turned  to  me  again. 

"  If  you're  the  girl,"  he  said,  "  you  can 
get  in.  Hunt  up  Mrs.  Compton,  and 
she'll  take  charge  of  you." 

Compton !  At  the  mention  of  that 
name  a  shudder    passed    through  me. 


She  had  been  in  the  family  of  the  mur- 
dered man,  and  had  ever  since  lived  with 
his  murderer.  I  went  in  without  a  word, 
prepared  for  the  worst,  and  expecting'  to 
see  some  evil-faced  woman,  fit  companion 
for  the  pair  outside. 

A  servant  was  passing  along.  "  Where 
is  Mrs.  Compton  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Somewhere  or  other,  I  suppose," 
growled  the  man,  and  went  on. 

I  stood  quietly.  Had  I  not  been  pre- 
pared for  some  such  thing  as  this  I  mi^^ht 
perhaps  have  broken  down  under  grief, 
but  I  had  read  the  MS.,  and  nothing 
could  surprise  or  wound  me. 

I  waited  there  for  nearly  half  an  hour, 
during  which  time  no  notice  was  taken 
of  me.  1  heard  my  father  and  John  walk 
down  the  piazza  steps  and  go  away.  They 
had  evidently  forgotten  all  about  me. 
At  last  a  man  came  toward  the  door  who 
did  look  like  a  servant.  He  was  dressed 
in  black.  He  was  a  slender,  pale,  sham- 
bling man,  with  thin,  light  hair,  and  a 
furtive  eye  and  a  weary  face.  He  did  not 
look  like  one  who  would  insult  me,  so  1 
asked  him  where  I  could  find  Mrs, 
Compton. 

He  started  as  I  spoke  and  looked  at 
me  in  wonder,  yet  respectfully. 

"  I  have  just  come  from  China,"  said  I, 
"  and  my  father  told  me  to  find  Mrs, 
Compton." 

He  looked  at  me  for  some  time  without 
speaking  a  word.  I  began  to  think  that 
he  was  imbecile. 

"  So  you  are  Mr.  Potts'  daugliter, ' 
said  he  at  last,  in  a  thin,  weak  voice, 
'•  I — I  didn't  know  that  you  had  come— I 
— I  knew  that  he  was  expecting  you— but 
heard  you  were  lost  at  sea — Mrs.  Comp- 
ton— yes — oh,  yes — I'll  show  you  where 
you  can  find  Mrs.  Compton." 

He  was  embarrassed,  yet  not  unkind. 
There  was  wonder  in  his  face,  as  though 


-';  jih: 


nF.ATRICF.S    JOURNAI, 


he  was  surprised  at  my  appearance.  i*er- 
haps  it  was  because  he  found  me  so 
unlike  my  father.  He  walked  toward 
the  j;rcat  stairs,  from  time  to  time  turn- 
hi^f  his  head  to  look  at  me,  and  ascended 
them.  I  followed,  and  after  going  to  the 
tliiid  story  we  came  to  a  room. 

"  That's  the  place,"  said  he. 

Me  then  turned,  without  replying  to 
my  thanks,  and  left  me.  I  knocked  at 
llic  door.  After  some  delay  it  was 
opened,  and  I  went  in  A  thin,  pale 
woman  was  there.  Her  hair  was  perfectly 
wiiile.  Her  face  was  marked  by  the 
traces  of  great  grief  and  suffering,  yet 
overspread  by  an  expression  of  surpassing 
gentleness  and  sweetness.  She  looked 
like  one  of  these  women  who  live  lives  of 
devotion  for  others,  who  suffer  out  of 
the  spirit  of  self-sacrifice,  and  count  their 
own  comfort  and  happiness  as  nothing 
in  comparison  with  that  of  those  whom 
they  love.  My  heart  warmed  toward  her 
at  the  tirst  glance  ;  I  saw  that  this  place 
could  not  be  Jiltogether  corrupt  since  she 
was  here. 

"  I  am  Mr.  Potts'  daughter,"  said  I ; 
"are  you  Mrs.  Compton  ? " 

She  stood  mute.  An  expression  of 
deadly  fear  overspread  her  countenance, 
which  seemed  to  turn  her  white  face  to  a 
grayish  hue,  and  the  look  that  she  gave 
me  was  such  a  look  as  one  may  cast  upon 
some  object  of  mortal  fear. 

"  You  look  alarmed,"  said  I,  in  sur- 
prise ;  "  and  why  ?  Am  I  then  so 
frightful?" 

She  seized  my  hand  and  covered  it 
with  kisses.  This  new  outburst  sur- 
prised me  as  much  as  her  former  fear.  I 
(lid  not  know  what  to  do.  "  Ah  !  my 
sweet  child,  my  dearest ! "  she  murmured. 
"  How  did  you  come  here,  here  of  all 
places  on  earth  ?  " 

I  was  touched  by  the  tenderness  and 


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you    come 


did 


sympathy  of  her  tone, 
gentlest    love.      "  How 
here  ? "  I  asked. 

She  started  .and  turned  on  me  her 
former  look  of  fear. 

"  Do  not  look  at  me  so,"  said  I,  "  dear 
Mrs.  Compton.  You  are  timid.  Do  not 
be  afraid  of  me.  I  am  incapable  of 
inspiring  fear."  I  pressed  her  hand. 
"  Let  us  say  nothing  more  now  about  the 
place.  We  each  seem  to  know  what  it 
is.  Since  I  find  one  like  you  living  here 
it  will  not  seem  altogether  a  place  of 
despair." 

"  Oh,  dear  child,  what  words  are 
these?    You  speak  as  if  you  knew  all." 

"  I  know  much,"  said  I,  "and  I  have 
suffered  much." 

"  Ah,  my  dearest !  you  are  too  young 
and  too  beautiful  to  suffer."  An  agony 
of  sorrow  came  over  her  face.  Then  I 
saw  upon  it  an  expression  which  1  have 
often  marked  since,  a  strange  struggling 
desire  to  say  something,  which  that 
excessive  and  ever-present  terror  of  hers 
made  her  incapable  of  uttering.  Some 
secret  thought  was  in  her  whole  face, 
but  her  faltering  tongue  was  paralyzed 
and  could  not  divulge  it. 

5'he  turned  away  with  a  deep  sigh.  I 
looked  at  her  with  much  interest.  She 
was  not  the  woman  I  expected  to  find. 
Her  face  and  voice  won  my  heart.  She 
was  certainly  one  to  be  trusted.  But 
still  there  was  this  mystery  about  her. 

Nothing  could  exceed  her  kindness  and 
tenderness.  She  arranged  my  room. 
She  did  everything  that  could  be  done  to 
give  it  an  air  of  comfort.  It  was  a  very 
luxuriously  furnished  chamber.  All  the 
house  was  lordly  in  its  style  and  arrange- 
ments. That  first  night  I  slept  the  sleep 
of  the  weary. 

The  next  day  I  spent  in  my  room, 
occupied  with  my  own  sad  thoughts.    At 


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about  three  in  ci;e  afternoorf  I  saw  /n'm 
come  up  the  avenue.  My  heart  throbbed 
violently.  My  eyes  were  riveted  upon 
that  well-known  face,  how  loved  !  how 
dear !  In  vain  I  tried  to  conjecture  the 
reason  why  he  should  come.  Was  it  to 
stW  e  the  first  blow  in  his  just,  his  implac- 
able vengeance  ?  I  longed  that  I  might 
receive  that  blow.  Anything  that  came 
from  Aim  would  be  sveet. 

He  stayed  a  long  time  and  then  left. 
What  passed  I  cannot  conjecture.  But 
it  had  evidently  been  an  agreeable  visit 
to  my  father,  for  I  heard  him  lauguing 
uproariously  on  the  piazza  about  some- 
thing not  long  after  he  had  gone. 

I  have  nov  seen  him  since. 

For  several  weeks  I  scarcely  moved 
from  my  room.  I  ate  with  Mrs.  Comp- 
ton.  Her  reserve  was  impenetrabi".  It 
was  with  painful  fear  and  trembling  that 
she  touched  upon  anything  connected 
with  the  affairs  of  the  house  or  the  family. 
I  saw  it  and  spared  her  Poor  thinj,,  she 
has  always  been  too  timid  for  such  a  life 
as  this. 

At  the  end  of  a  month  I  began  to 
think  that  I  could  live  here  in  a  state 
of  obscurity  without  being  molested. 
Strange  that  a  daughter's  feelings  toward 
a  father  and  brother  should  be  those  of 
horror,  and  that  her  desire  with  reference 
10  them  should  be  merely  to  keep  out  of 
their  sight.  I  had  no  occupation,  and 
needed  none,  for  I  had  my  thfughts  and 
my  memories.  These  memories  were 
bitter,  yet  sweet.  I  took  the  sweet,  and 
tried  to  solace  myself  with  them.  The 
days  are  gone  forever ;  no  longer  does 
the  sea  spread  wide;  no  Linger  can  I 
hear  his  voice ;  I  can  hold  him  in  my 
arms  no  more  ;  yet  I  can  remember — 

"Das  siisseste  Gliick  fiii'  die  trauernde  Brust, 
Nach  der  schonen  Liebe  vsrschwundener  Lust, 
Sind  dcr  Liebe  Schmerzen  und  Klagen." 


I  think  I  had  lived  this  sort  of  life  for 
three  months  without  seeing  either  my 
father  or  brother. 

At  the  end  of  that  time  my  father  sent 
for  me.  He  informed  me  that  he  intended 
to  give  a  grand  entertainment  to  the 
county  families,  and  wanted  me  to  dc  the 
honors.  He  had  ordered  dressmakers 
for  me;  he  wished  me  to  wear  some 
jewels  which  he  had  in  the  house,  and 
informed  me  that  it  would  be  the  grandest 
thin];  of  the  kind  that  had  ever  taken 
place.  Fire-works  were  going  to  be  let 
off ;  the  grounds  were  to  be  illuminated, 
and  nothing  that  money  could  effect 
would  be  spared  to  render  it  the  most 
splendid  festival  that  could  be  imagined. 

I  did  as  he  said.  The  dressmakers 
came,  and  I  allowed  them  to  array  me 
as  they  chose.  My  father  informed  me 
that  be  would  not  give  me  the  jewels  till 
the  erne  came,  hinting  a  fear  that  I 
might  steal  them. 

At  last  the  evening  arrived.  Invita- 
tions had  been  sent  everywhere.  It 
was  expected  that  the  house  would  be 
crowded.  My  father  even  ventured  to 
make  a  personal  request  that  I  would 
adorn  myself  as  well  as  possible.  I 
did  the  best  I  could,  and  went  to  the 
drawing  room  to  receive  the  expected 
crowds. 

The  hour  came  and  passed,  but  no 
one  appeared.  My  father  looked  a  little 
troubled,  but  he  and  John  waited  in  the 
drawing  room.  Servants  were  sent 
down  to  see  if  anyone  was  approach- 
ing. An  hour  passed.  My  father 
looked  deeply  enraged.  Two  hours 
passed.  Still  no  one  came.  Three 
hours  passed.  I  waited  calmly,  hut 
my  father  and  John,  who  had  all 
the  time  been  drinking  freely,  he- 
came  furious.  It  was  now  midnight, 
and  all  hope  hat)  left  them.    They  iiad 


BEATRICES   JOURNAL 


157 


been  treated  with  scorn  by  the  whole 
county. 

The  servants  were  laughing  at  my 
father's  disgrace.  The  proud  array  in 
the  different  rooms  was  all  a  mockery. 
The  elaborate  fiie-works  could  not  be 
used. 

My  father  turned  Ii's  eyes,  iniiamed  by 
anger  and  strong  drink,  toward  me. 

"  She's  a  d d  bad  investment,"  I 

heard  him  say. 

"  I  told  you  so,"  said  John,  who  did 
not  deign  to  look  at  me :  "  but  you  were 
determined." 

They  then  sat  drinking  in  silence  for 
some  time. 

"  Sold  ! "  said  my  father  suddenly, 
with  an  oath. 

John  made  no  reply. 

"  I  thought  the  county  would  take  to 
her.  She's  one  of  their  own  sort,"  my 
father  muttered. 

"  If  it  weren't  for  you  they  might," 
said  John  ;  "  but  they  aint  overfond  of 
her  dear  father." 

"  But  I  sent  out  the  invites  in  her 
name." 

"  No  go  anyhow." 

"  I  thought  I'd  get  in  with  them  all 
right  away,  hobnob  with  lo.ds  and  baro- 
nets, and  maybe  get  knighted  on  the 
spot." 

John  gave  a  long  scream  of  laughter. 

"  You  old  fool !  "  he  cried  ;  "  so  that's 
what  you're  up  to,  is  it  ?  Sir  John — ha, 
ha,  ha !  You'll  never  be  made  Sir  John 
hy  parties,  I'm  afraid." 

"Oh,  don't  you  be  too  sure.  I'm  not 
put  down.  I'll  try  again,"  he  continued, 
after  a  pause.  "  Next  year  I'll  do  it. 
Why,  she'll  marry  a  lord,  and  then  won't 
I  be  a  lord's  father-in-law  ?  What  do 
you  say  to  that  ?  " 

"  When  did  you  get  these  notions  in 
your  blessed  head  ?  "   asked  John. 


"Oh,  I've  had  them It's  not  so 

much  for  myself,  Johnnie — but  for  you. 
For  if  I'm  a  lord  you'll  be  a  lord  too." 

"  Lord  Potts  !    Ha,  ha,  ha  !  " 

"  No,"  said  .  my  father,  with  some 
appearance  of  vexation,  "  not  that ;  we'll 
take  our  title  the  way  all  the  lords  do, 
from  the  estates.  I'll  be  Lord  Brandon, 
and  when  I  die  you'll  get  the  title." 

"  And  that's  your  little  game.  Well, 
you've  played  such  good  little  games  in 
your  life  that  I've  got  nothing  to  say, 
except—'  Go  it ! '  " 

"  She's  the  one  that  '11  give  me  a  lift." 

"  Well,  she  ought  to  be  able  to  do 
something." 

By  this  time  I  concluded  that  I  had 
done  my  duty  and  prepared  to  retire. 
I  did  not  wish  to  overhear  any  of  their 
conversation.  As  I  Vv'alked  out  of  the 
room  I  still  heard  their  remarks  : 

"Blest  if  she  don't  look  as  if  she 
thought  herself  the  Queen,"  said  John. 

"  It's  the  diamonds,  Johnnie." 

"  No,  it  aint ;  it's  the  girl  herself.  I 
don't  like  the  way  she  has  of  looking 
at  me  and  through  me." 

"  Why,  that's  the  way  with  that  kind. 
It's  what  the  lords  like." 

"I  don't  like  it,  then,  and  I  tell  you 
she's  got  to  be  took  down  !  " 

This  was  the  last  I  heard.  Yet  one 
thing  was  evident  to  me  from  their 
conversation.  My  father  had  some  wild 
plan  of  effecting  an  entrance  into  society 
through  me.  He  thought  that  after  he 
was  once  recognized  he  might  get  suffi- 
cient influence  to  gain  a  title  and  found 
a  family.  I  also  might  marry  a  lord. 
He  thus  dreamed  of  being  Lord  Bran- 
don, and  one  of  the  great  nobles  of  the 
land. 

Amid  my  sadness  I  almost  smiled  at 
this  vain  dream ;  but  yet  John's  words 
affected   me  strongly.     "  You've   played 


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158 


CORD    AND    CREESE 


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such  good  little  games  in  your  life." 
Well  I  knew  with  whom  they  were 
played.  One  was  with  Despard,  the 
other    with     Brandon. 

This  then  was  the  reason  why  he  had 
sent  for  me  from  China.  The  knowl- 
edge of  his  purpose  made  my  life  neither 
brighter  nor  darker.  I  still  lived  on  as 
before. 

During  these  months  Mrs.  Compton's 
tender  devotion  to  me  never  ceased.  I 
respected  her,  and  forbore  to  exrite  that 
painful  fear  to  which  she  was  subject. 
Once  or  twice  I  forgot  myself  and  began 
speaking  to  her  about  her  strange  posi- 
tion here.  She  stopped  me  with  her  look 
of  alarm. 

"  Are  you  not  afraid  to  be  kind  to  me  ?  " 
I  asked. 

She  looked  at  me  piteously. 

"  You  are  the  only  one  that  is  kind  to 
me,"  I  continued.  "  How  have  you  the 
courage  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  she  murmured, 
"you  are  so  dear  to  me." 

She  sighed  and  was  silent.  The 
mystery  about  her  remained  unchanged  ; 
her  gentle  nature,  her  tender  love,  and 
her  ever-present  fear.  What  was  there 
in  her  past  that  so  influenced  her  life  ? 
Had  she  too  been  mixed  up  with  the 
crime  on  the  Vishnu?  She?  impossible! 
Yet  surely  something  as  dark  as  that 
must  have  been  required  to  throw  so 
black  a  cloud  over  her  life.  Yet  what — 
what  could  that  have  been  ?  In  spite  of 
myself  I  associate  her  secret  with  the 
tragedy  of  Despard.  She  was  in  his 
family  long.  His  wife  died.  She  must 
have  been  with  her  at  the  time. 

The  possibilities  that  have  suggested 
themselves  to  my  mind  will  one  day 
drive  me  mad.  Alas,  how  my  heart 
yearns  over  that  lonely  man  in  the  drift- 
ing ship  !    And  yet,  merciful  God  I  who 


am  I  that  I  should  sympathize  with  him  ? 
My  name  is  infamy,  my  blood  is  pollu- 
tion. 

I  spoke  to  her  once  in  a  general  way 
about  the  past.  Had  she  ever  been  out 
of  England  }  I  asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured  dreamily. 

"Where?" 

She  looked  at  me  and  said  not  a  word, 

At  another  time  I  spoke  of  China,  and 
hinted  that  perhaps  she  too  knew  some- 
thing about  the  East.  The  moment  that 
I  said  this  I  repented.  The  poor  creature 
was  shaken  from  head  to  foot  with  a 
sudden  convulsion  of  fear.  This  convul- 
sion was  so  terrible  that  it  seemed  to  nie 
as  though  another  would  be  death.  I 
tried  to  soothe  her,  but  she  looked  fear- 
fully at  me  for  a  long  time  after. 

At  another  time  I  asked  her  directly 
whether  her  husband  was  alive.  Slie 
looked  at  me  with  deep  sadness  and 
shook  her  head.  I  do  not  know  what  po- 
sition she  holds  here.  She  is  not  house- 
keeper; non'i  of  the  servants  pay  any  at- 
tention to  her  whatever.  There  is  an 
impudent  head  servant  who  manages  the 
rest.  I  noticed  that  t'>e  man  who  showed 
me  to  her  room  when  I  first  came  treats 
her  differently  from  the  rest.  Once  or 
twice  I  saw  them  talking  in  one  of  the 
halls.  There  was  deep  respect  in  his 
manner.  What  he  does  I  have  not  yet 
found  out.  He  has  always  shown  great 
respect  to  me,  though  why  I  cannot 
imagine.  He  has  the  same  timidity  of 
manner  which  marks  Mrs.  Complon. 
His  name  is  Philips. 

I  once  asked  Mrs.  Compton  who 
Philips  was,  and  what  he  did.  She 
answered  m  ickly  that  he  was  a  kind  of 
clerk  to  Mr.  Potts,  and  helped  him  to 
keep  his  accounts. 

"  Has  he  been  with  him  long  ? "  I 
continued. 


BEATRICE  r?   JOURNAL 


159 


"  Yes,  a  considerable  time,"  she  said ; 
l)iit  I  saw  that  the  subject  distressed 
her,  so  I  changed  it. 

For  more  than  three  months  I  remained 
in  my  room,  but  at  last,  through  utter 
despair,  I  longed  to  go  out.  The  noble 
grounds  were  there,  high  hills  from  which 
the  wide  sea  was  visible — that  sea  which 
shall  be  associated  with  his  memory  till 
I  die.  A  great  longing  came  over  me  to 
look  upon  its  wide  expanse,  and  feed  my 
soul  with  old  and  dear  memories.  There 
it  would  lie,  the  same  sea  from  which  he 
so  often  saved  me,  over  which  we  saiied 
till  he  laid  down  his  noble  life  at  my 
feet,  and  I  gave  back  that  life  to  him 
again. 

I  used  to  ascend  a  hill  which  was  half 
a  mile  behind  the  Hall  within  the 
grounds,  and  pass  whole  days  there  un- 
molested. No  one  took  the  trouble  to 
notice  what  I  did — at  least  I  thought  so 
till  afterward.  There  for  months  I  used 
to  go.  I  would  sit  and  look  fixedly  upon 
the  blue  water,  and  my  imagmation 
would  carry  me  far  away  to  the  South, 
to  that  island  on  the  African  shore  where 
he  once  reclined  in  my  arms,  before  the 
day  when  I  learned  that  my  touch  was 
pollution  to  him — to  that  island  where  I 
afterward  knelt  by  him  as  he  lay  sense- 
less, slowly  coming  back  to  life,  when  if 
I  might  but  touch  the  hem  of  his  gar- 
ment it  was  bliss  enough  for  one  day. 
Ah,  me  !  how  often  I  have  wet  his  feet 
with  my  tears — poor,  emaciated  feet — 
and  longed  to  be  able  to  wipe  them  with 
my  hair,  but  dared  not.  He  lay  uncon- 
scious. He  never  knew  the  anguish  of 
my  love. 

Then  I  was  less  despairing.  The  air 
around  was  filled  with  the  echo  of  his 
voice ;  I  could  shut  my  eyes,  and  bring 
him  before  me.  His  face  was  always 
visible  to  my  soul. 


One  day  the  idea  came  into  my  head 
to  extend  my  ramble  into  the  country 
outside,  in  order  to  get  a  wider  view.  I 
went  to  the  gate.  The  porter  came  out 
and  asked  what  I  wanted.     I  told  him. 

"  You  can't  go  out,"  said  he  rudely. 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"Oh,  them's  Potts'  orders— that's 
enough,  I  think." 

"  He  never  said  so  to  me,"  I  replied 
mildly. 

"  That's  no  odds ;  he  said  so  to  me, 
and  he  told  me  if  you  made  any  row  to 
tell  you  that  you  were  watched,  and 
might  just  as  well  give  up  at  once." 

"  Watched  ! "  said  I  wonderingly. 

"  Yes — for  fear  you'd  get  skittish,  and 
try  and  do  something  foolish.  Old  Potts' 
is  bound  to  keep  you  under  his  thumb." 

I  turned  away.  I  did  not  care  much. 
1  felt  more  surprise  than  anything  else  to 
think  that  he  would  take  the  trouble  to 
watch  me.  Whether  he  did  or  not  was 
of  little  consequence.  If  I  could  only  be 
where  I  had  the  sea  before  me  it  was 
enough. 

That  day,  on  going  back  to  the  Hall, 
I  saw  John  sitting  on  the  piazza.  A 
huge  bull-dog  which  he  used  to  take 
with  him  everywhere  was  lying  at  his 
feet.  Just  before  I  reached  the  steps  a 
Malay  servant  came  out  of  the  house. 

He  was  about  the  same  age  as  John. 
I  knew  him  to  be  a  Malay  when  I  first 
saw  him,  and  concluded  that  my  father 
had  picked  him  up  in  the  East.  He  was 
slight  but  very  lithe  and  muscular,  with 
dark  glittering  eyes  and  glistening  white 
teeth.  He  never  looked  at  me  when  I 
met  him,  but  always  at  the  ground,  with- 
out seeming  to  be  aware  of  my  existence. 

The  Malay  was  passing  out  when 
John  called  out  to  him  : 

"  Hi,  there,  Vijal ! " 

Vijal  looked  carelessly  at  him. 


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"  Here  !  "  cried  John,  in  the  tone  with 
which  he  would  have  addressed  his 
dog. 

Vijal  stopped  carelessly. 

"  Pick  up  my  hat,  and  hand  it  to  me." 

His  hat  had  fallen  down  behind  him. 
Vijal  stood  without  moving  and  regarded 
him  with  an  evil  smile. 

"  D n    you,  do  you  hear  ?  "    cried 

John.     "  Pick  up  my  hat." 

But  Vijal  did  not  move. 

"  If  you  don't,  I'll  set  the  dog  on  you," 
cried  John  starting  to  his  feet  in  a  rage. 

Still  Vijal  remained  motionless. 

"  Nero ! "  cried  John  furiously,  point- 
ing to  Vijal,  "  seize  him,  sir." 

The  dog  sprang  up  and  at  once  leaped 
upon  Vijal.  Vijal  warded  off  the  assault 
with  his  arm.  The  dog  seized  it,  and 
held  on,  as  was  his  nature.  Vijal  did 
not  utter  a  cry,  but  seizing  the  dog,  he 
threw  him  on  his  back,  and  flinging  him- 
self upon  him,  fixed  his  own  teeth  in  the 
dog's  throat. 

John  burst  into  a  torrent  of  the  most 
frightful  curses.  He  ordered  Vijal  to  let 
go  of  the  dog.  Vijal  did  not  move ;  but 
while  the  dog's  teeth  were  fixed  in  his 
arm,  his  own  were  still  fixed  as  tena- 
ciously in  the  throat  of  the  dog, 

John  sprang  forward  and  kicked  him 
with  frightful  violence.  He  leaped  on 
him  and  stamped  on  him.  At  last,  Vijal 
drew  a  knife  from  his  girdle  and  made  a 
dash  at  John.  This  frightened  John, 
who  fell  back  cursing.  Vijal  then  raised 
his  head. 

The  dog  lay  motionless.  He  was  dead. 
Vijal  sat  down,  his  arm  running  blood, 
with  the  knife  in  his  hand,  still  glaring  at 
John. 

During  this  frightful  scene  I  stood 
rooted  to  the  spot  in  horror.  At  last 
the  sight  of  Vijal's  suffering  aroused  me. 
I  rushed  forward,  and  tearing  the  scarf 


from  my  neck,  knelt  down  and  reached 
out  my  hand  to  rtinch  the  blood. 

Vijal  drew  back.  •'  Poor  Vijal,"  said 
I,  "  let  me  stop  this  blood.  I  can  dress 
wounds.    How  you  suffer !  " 

He  looked  at  me  in  bewilderment. 
Surprise  at  hearing  a  kind  word  in  tliis 
house  of  horror  seemed  to  deprive  him 
of  speech.  Passively. he  let  me  take  his 
arm,  and  I  bound  it  up  as  well  as  I 
could. 

All  this  time  John  stood  cursing,  first 
me,  and  then  Vijal.  I  said  not  a  word, 
and  Vijal  did  not  seemed  to  hear  him, 
but  sat  regarding  me  with  his  fiery  black 
eyes.  When  at  last  I  had  finished,  he 
rose  and  still  stood  staring  at  me.  I 
walked   into  the  house. 

John  hurled  a  torrent  of  imprecations 
after  me.  The  last  words  that  I  heard 
were  the  same  as  he  had  said  once 
before:    "You've  got  to  be  took  down  ; 

and  I'll  be  d d  if  you  don't  get  took 

down   precious  soon  ! " 

I  told  Mrs.  Compton  of  what  had  hap- 
pened. As  usual,  she  was  seized  with 
terror.  She  looked  at  me  with  a  glance 
of  fearful  apprehension.  At  last  she 
gasped    out : 

"  They'll  kill  you." 

"  Let  them,"  said  I  carelessly ;  "  it 
would  be  better  than   living." 

"  Oh,  dear !  "  groaned  the  poor  old 
thing,  and  sank  sobbing  in  a  chair,  t 
did  what  I  could  to  soothe  her,  but  to 
little  purpose.  She  afterward  told  me 
that  Vijal  had  escaped  further  punish- 
ment in  spite  of  John's  threats,  and 
hinted  that  they  were  half  afraid  of 
him. 

The  next  day,  on  attempting  to  go  out, 
Philips  told  me  that  I  was  not  to  be  per- 
mitted to  leave  the  house.  I  considered 
it  the  result  of  John's  threat,  and  yielded 
without  a  word. 


REATRICES    JOURNAL 


i6i 


After  this  I  had  to  seek  distraction 
from  my  thoughts  within  liie  house. 
Now  there  came  over  nie  a  great  longing 
for  music.  Once,  when  in  the  drawing 
room  on  that  famous  evening  of  the 
the  abortive  fete,  whicli  was  the  only 
time  I  ever  was  there,  I  had  noticed  a 
magnificent  grand  piano  of  most  costly 
workmanship.  Tire  thought  of  this  came 
to  my  mind,  and  an  unconquerable  de- 
sire to  try  it  arose.  So  I  went  down  and 
began  to  play. 

It  was  a  little  out  of  tune,  but  the  tone 
was  marvellously  full  and  sweet.  I  threw 
myself  with  indescribable  delight  into  the 
charm  of  the  hour.  All  the  old  joy 
which  music  once  used  to  bring  came 
hack.  Imagination,  stimulated  by  the 
swelling  harmonies,  transported  me  far 
away  from  this  prison-house  and  its 
liateful  associations  to  that  happier  time 
of  youth  when  not  a  thought  of  sorrow 
came  over  me.  I  lost  myself  therein. 
Then  that  passed,  that  life  vanished,  and 
the  sea  voyage  began.  The  thoughts  of 
my  mind  and  tne  emotions  of  my  heart 
passed  down  to  the  quivering  chords  and 
trembled  into  life  and  sound. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  I  had  been 
playing  when  suddenly  I  heard  a  sob 
behind  me.  I  started  and  turned.  It 
was  Philips. 

He  was  standing  with  tears  in  his  eyes 
and  a  rapt  expression  on  his  emaciated 
face,  his  hands  hanging  listless,  and  his 
whole  air  that  of  one  who  had  lost  all 
senses  save  that  of  hearing.  But  as  I 
turned  and  stopped,  the  spell  that  bound 
him  was  broken.  He  sighed  and  looked 
at  me  earnestly. 

"Can  you  sing?  " 

"  Would  you  like  me  to  do  so  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  in  a  faint,  imploring 
voice. 

I  began  a  low  song — a  strain  associ- 


ated with  that  same  childhood  of  which  I 
had  just  then  been  thinking — a  low,  sad 
strain,  sweet  to  my  ears  and  to  my  soul ; 
it  spoke  of  peace  and  innocence,  quiet 
home  joys  and  calm  delights.  My  own 
mind  brought  before  me  the  image  of  the 
house  where  I  had  lived,  with  the  shadow 
of  great  trees  around,  and  goigeous 
flowers  everywhere,  where  the  sultry  air 
breathed  soft,  and  beneath  the  hot  noon 
all  men  sank  to  rest  and  slumber. 

When  I  stopped  I  turned  again.  Philips 
had  not  changed  his  attitude.  But  as  I 
turned  he  uttered  an  exclamation  and 
tore  out  his  watch. 

"  Oh,  Heavens  !  two  hours  !  "  he  ex- 
claimed.    "He'll    kill   me   for  this." 

With  these  words  he  rushed  out  of  the 
room. 

I  kept  up  my  music  for  about  ten  days, 
when  one  day  it  was  stopped  forever.  I 
was  in  the  middle  of  a  piece  when  I  heard 
heavy  footsteps  behind  me.  I  turned  and 
saw  my  father.  I  rose  and  looked  at 
him  with  an  effort  to  be  respectful.  It 
was  lost  on  him,  however.  He  did  not 
glance  at  me. 

"  I  came  up  .o  say  to  you,"  said  he, 
after  a  little  hesitation,  "  that  I  can't  stand 
this  infernal  squall  and  clatter  any  longer. 
So  in  future  you  just  shut  up." 

He  turned  and  left  me.  I  closed  the 
piano  forever,  and  went  to  my  room. 

The  year  ended,  and  a  new  year  began. 
January  passed  away.  My  melancholy 
began  to  affect  my  health.  I  scarcely 
ever  slept  at  night,  and  to  eat  was  diffi- 
cult. I  hoped  that  I  was  going  to  die. 
Alas !  death  will  not  come  when  one 
calls. 

One  day  I  was  in  my  room  lying  on  the 
couch  when  Mrs.  Compton  came.  On 
entering  she  looked  terrified  about  some- 
thing. She  spoke  in  a  very  agitated 
voice:   "They  want  you  downstairs." 


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"  Who  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Potts  and  John." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  and  I  prepared  to  get 
ready.    "  When  do  they  want  me  ?  " 

"  Now,"  said  Mrs.  Coirpton,  who  by 
this  time  was  crying. 

"  Why  are  you  so  agitated  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  am  afraid  for  you." 

"  Why  so  ?    Can  anything  be  worse  ?  " 

"  Ah,  my  dearest !  you  don't  know — 
you  don't  know." 

I  said  nothing  more,  but  went  down. 
On  entering  the  room  i  saw  my  father 
and  John  seated  at  a  table  with  brandy 
before  them.  A  third  man  was  there. 
He  was  a  thick-set  man  of  about  the 
same  height  of  my  father,  but  more 
muscular,  with  a  strong,  square  jaw,  thick 
neck,  low  brow,  and  stern  face.  My 
father  did  not  show  any  actual  ferocity  in 
his  face,  whatever  he  felt,  but  this  man's 
face  expressed  relentless  cruelty. 

On  entering  the  room  I  walked  up  a 
little  distance  and  stood  looking  at  them. 

"  There,  Clark,  what  do  you  think  of 
that  ?  "  said  my  father. 

The  name,  Clark,  at  once  made  known 
to  me  who  this  man  was — that  old  asso- 
ciate of  my  father — his  assistant  on  board 
the  Vishnu.  Yet  the  name  did  not  add 
one  whit  to  the  abhorrence  which  I  felt 
— my  father  was  worse  even  than  he. 

The  man  Clark  looked  at  me  scrutiniz- 
ingly  for  some  time. 

"  So  that's  the  gal,"  said  he  at  last. 

"  That's  the  gal,"  said  my  father. 

Clark  waved  his  hand  at  me.  "  Turn 
round  sideways,"  said  he. 

I  looked  at  him  quietly  without  moving. 
He  repeated  the  order,  but  I  took  no 
notice  of  it. 

"  D n   her ! "    said     he.     "  Is    she 

deaf?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  John;  "but 
she's  plucky.    She'd  just  as  soon  you'd 


There  isn't  any  way  of 
father 


kill  her  as  not, 
moving  her." 

"  Turn     round  !  "    cried     my 
angrily. 

I  turned  as  he  said.  "  You  see,"  said 
he  with  a  laugh,  "  she's  been  piously 
brought  up  ;  she  honors  her  father." 

At  this  Clark  burst  into  a  loud  laugh. 

Some  conversation  followed  about  nie 
as  I  stood  there.  Clark  then  ordered  me 
to  turn  round  and  face  him.  I  took  no 
notice ;  but  on  my  father's  ordering  it, 
I  obeyed  as  before.  This  appeared  to 
amuse  them  all  very  greatly,  just  as  tlie 
tricks  of  an  intelligent  poodle  might  have 
done.  Clark  gave  me  many  commands 
on  purpose  to  see  my  refusal,  and  have 
my  father's  order  which  followed  obeyed. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  at  last,  leaning  back 
in  his  chair,  "  she  is  a  showy  piece  of 
furniture.  Your  idea  isn't  a  bad  one 
either." 

He  rose  from  his  chair  and  came 
toward  me.  I  stood  looking  at  hinr.  's\\.\\ 
a  gaze  so  fixed  and  intense  that  it  seemed 
as  if  all  my  being  were  centred  in  my  eyes. 

He  came  up  and  reached  out  to  take 
hold  of  my  arm.  I  stepped  back.  He 
looked  up  angrily.  But,  for  some  reason, 
the  moment  that  he  caught  sight  of  my 
face,  an  expression  of  fear  passed  over 
his. 

"  Heavens ! "  he  groaned  ;  "  look  at  that 
face ! " 

I  saw  my  father  look  at  me.  The  same 
horror  passed  over  his  countenance.  An 
awful  thought  came  to  nie.  As  these 
men  turned  their  faces  away  from  nie  in 
fear  I  felt  my  strength  going.  I  turned 
and  rushed  from  the  room.  I  do  not 
remember  anything  more. 

It  was  early  in  February  when  this 
occurred.  Until  the  begiiming  of  August 
I  lay  senseless.  For  the  first  four  montlis 
I  hovered  faintly  between  life  and  death. 


THE    nVZANTINE    HYMNISTS 


Why  did  they  not  let  me  die  ?  Why 
(lid  I  not  die "  /Jas !  had  I  died  I 
might  now  have  been  beyond  this 
SOI  row;  I  have  waked  to  meet  it  all 
again. 

Mrs.  Compton  says  she  found  me  on 
the  floor  of  my  own  room,  and  that  I  was 
in  u  kind  of  stupor.  I  had  no  fevei  or 
delirium.  A  doctor  came,  who  said  it 
was  a  congestion  of  the  brain.    Thoughts 


163 

hke  mine  might  well  destroy  the  brain 
forever. 

For  a  month  I  have  been  slowly  rerov- 
ering.  I  can  now  walk  about  the  room. 
I  know  nothing  of  what  is  going  on  in 
the  house,  and  \Vish  to  know  nothing. 
Mrs.  Compton  is  as  devoted  as  ever. 

I  have  got  thus  far,  and  will  stop  here. 
I  have  been  several  days  writing  this.  I 
must  stop  till  I  am  stronger. 


CHAPTER  XXV 


THE   BYZANTINE   HYMNISTS 


J 

> 


More  than  a  year  had  passed  since 
that  visit  to  Thornton  Grange  which  has 
aln:ady  been  mentioned.  Despard  had 
no*  forgotten  or  neglected  the  melancholy 
case  of  the  Brandon  family.  He  had 
written  in  all  directions,  and  had  gone 
on  frequent  visits. 

On  his  return  from  one  of  these  he 
went  to  the  Grange.  Mrs.  Thornton  was 
sitting  in  the  drawing  room,  looking  pen- 
sively out  of  the  window,  when  she  saw 
his  well-known  figure  advancing  up  the 
avenue.  His  face  was  sad,  and  pervaded 
by  a  melancholy  expression,  which  was 
noticeable  now  as  he  walked  along. 

But  when  he  came  into  the  room  that 
melancholy  face  suddenly  lijjhted  up  with 
the  most  radiant  joy.  Mrs.  Thornton 
advanced  to  meet  him,  and  he  took  her 
hand  in  both  of  his. 

"  I  ought  to  say,  welcome  back  again," 
said  she,  with  forced  liveliness,  "  but  you 
may  have  been  in  iolby  a  week  for  all  I 
know.  When  did  you  come  back  }  Con- 
fess now  that  you  have  been  secluding 
yourself  in  your  study  instead  of  paying 
your  respects  in  the  proper  quarter." 


Despard  smiled.  "  I  arrived  home  at 
eleven  this  morning.  It  is  now  3  P.  M. 
by  my  watch.  Shall  I  say  how  impa- 
tiently I  have  waited  till  three  o'clock 
should  come?  " 

"  Oh,  no !  don't  say  anything  of  the 
sort.  I  can  imagine  all  that  you  would 
say.  But  tell  me  where  you  have  been  on 
this  last  visit  ?  " 

"  Wandering  like  an  evil  spirit,  seeking 
rest  and   finding  none." 

"  Have  you  been  to  London  again  ?  " 

"  Where  have  I  not  been  ?  " 

By  this  time  they  had  seated  them- 
selves. "  My  last  journey,"  said  Des- 
pard, "  like  my  former  ones,  was,  of 
course,  about  the  Brandon  affair.  You 
know  *hat  I  have  had  long  conversations 
with  Mr.  Thornton  about  it,  and  he  in- 
sists that  nothing  whatever  can  be  done. 
But  you  know,  also,  that  I  could  not  sit 
down  idly  and  calmly  under  this  convic- 
tion. I  have  felt  most  keenly  the  pres- 
ence of  intolerable  vvrong.  Every  day 
I  have  felt  as  if  I  had  shr.red  in  the 
infamy  of  those  who  neglected  that  dying 
man.    That  was  the  reason  why  I  wrote 


■""ii. 


"ni  I)  1 


IIIIIH 
'iJilii 
illlMi 


My 


i6d 


CORD    AND    CREESE 


C't 


c 

h 

jh 


a  I 


«*;: 


"■St     t 


to  Australia  to  see  if  the  Brandon  who 
was  (hownetl  was  really  the  on'j  I  sup- 
posed. I  heard,  you  know,  that  he  was 
the  same  man,  and  there  is  no  doubt 
about  that.  Then  you  know,  as  I  told 
you,  that  I  went  arouiKl  among  different 
lawyers  to  see  if  anything  could  be  done. 
Nearly  all  asserted  that  no  redress  was 
possible.  That  is  what  Mr.  Thornton 
said.  There  was  one  who  said  that  if  I 
were  rich  enough  I  might  begin  a  prose- 
cution, but  as  I  am  not  rich  that  did  me 
no  good.  That  man  would  have  been 
glad,  no  doubt,  ,  ha''e  undertr.k^n  such 
a  task." 

"  What  is  there  in  law  that  so  harde.  j 
the  heart  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Thornton,  after  a 
pause.  '*  Why  should  it  kill  all  senti- 
ment, and  destroy  so  utterly  all  the  more 
spiritual  qualities  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  that  the  law  does  this 
necessarily.  It  depends  after  all  on  the 
man  himself.  If  I  were  a  lawyer,  I 
should  still  love  music  above  all 
things." 

"  But  did  you  ever  know  a  lawyer  who 
loved  music  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  known  enough  of  them  to 
answer  that.  But  in  England  music  is 
not  loved  so  devotedly  as  in  other  coun- 
tries. Is  it  inconceivable  that  an  Italian 
lawyer  should  love  music  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Law  is  abhorrent  to 
me.  It  seems  to  be  a  profession  that  kills 
the  finer  sentiments." 

"  Why  so,  more  than  medicine  ?  The 
fact  is,  where  ordinary  men  are  concerned, 
any  scientific  profession  renders  art  dis- 
tasteful. At  least  this  is  so  in  England. 
After  all,  most  depends  on  the  man  him- 
self, and  one  who  is  born  with  a  keen 
sensibility  to  the  charms  of  art  will  carry 
it  through  life,  whatever  his  profession 
may  be." 

'•  But   suppose    the   man   himself  has 


neither  taste,  not  sensibility,  nor  any  ap- 
preciation  of  the  beautiful,  nor  any  sym- 
pathy whatever  with  those  vho  love  such 
things,  what  then  ?  " 

Mrs.  Thornton  spoke  earnestly  as  she 
asked  this. 

"  Well,"  said  Despard,  "  that  question 
answers  itself.  As  a  man  is  born,  so  he 
is;  and  if  nature  denies  him  taste  or 
sensibility  it  makes  no  difference  what 
is  his  profession." 

Mrs.  Thornton  made  no  reply. 

"  My  >.st  ourney,"  said  Despard,  "  was 
rdiou  5  ;c  T>  •  .ndon  rase,  I  /ent  to  Lon- 
dua  uiH.  o  see  if  something  could  not  be 
dojie,,  i  iiad  been  there  before  on  the 
same  errant  it  without  success.  I  was 
equally  unsuccessful  this  time. 

"  I  tried  to  find  out  about  Potts,  the 
man  who  had  purchased  the  estate,  but 
learned  that  it  was  necessary  to  go  to  the 
village  of  Brandon.  I  went  there,  and 
made  enquiries.  Without  exception  tlie 
people  sympathized  with  the  unfortunate 
family,  and  looked  with  detestation  upon 
the  man  who  had  supplanted  them. 

"I  heard  that  a  young  lady  went  there 
last  year  who  was  reputed  to  be  his 
daughter.  Everyone  said  that  she  was 
extraordinarily  beautiful,  and  looked 
like  a  lady.  She  stopped  at  the  inn 
under  the  care  of  a  gentleman  who 
accompanied  her,  and  went  to  the 
Hall.  She  has  never  come  out  of  it 
since. 

"  The  landlord  told  me  that  the  gentle- 
man was  a  pale,  sad-looking  man,  with 
dark  hair  and  beard.  He  seemed  very 
devoted  to  the  young  lady,  and  parted 
with  her  in  melancholy  silence.  His 
account  of  this  young  lady  moved  ine 
very  strangely.  He  was  not  at  all  a 
sentimental  man,  but  a  burly  John 
Bull,  which  made  his  story  all  the 
more  touching.     It  is  strange,   I   must 


THE    BYZANTINE    HYMNISTS 


'65 


lor  any  ap- 
r  any  syiu- 
0  love  such 

istly  as  slic 

at  question 
born,  so  he 
m  taste  or 
rence  wliat 

ply. 

spard, "  was 
teni  to  Lon- 
:ould  not  be 
:fore  on  the 
:ess.     I  was 

t  Potts,  the 
e  estate,  but 

to  go  to  the 
t  there,  and 
xception  the 

unfortunate 
station  upon 

them. 

y  went  there 
to   be  his 

lat  she  was 
and  loolced 
at   the  inn 

tleman  who 

ent    to    the 

le  out  of   it 

it  the  gentle- 
man, with 
seemed  very 

and  parted 

ilence.      His 

moved  me 

lot  at    all  a 

burly  John 
;ory  all  the 
nge,   I  must 


say,  that  one  like  her  should  go  into 
tliat  place  and  never  be  seen  again. 
i  do  not  know  what  to  think  of  it, 
nor  did  any  of  those  with  whom  I 
spoi<e  in   the   village.' 

"  Do  you  suppose  that  she  really  went 
there  and  nev  ;  came  back  ?  " 

"  That  is  \v     t  thf»y  say." 

"  Then  the>  must  believe  that  she  is 
kept  there." 

"  Yes,  so  II.  V  do. 

•Why  do  ney  not  take  some  steps  in 
tiic  matter  ?  " 

"  What  can  they  do  ?  She  is  his 
daughter.  Some  of  the  villagers  who 
have  been  to  the  Hall  at  different  times 
say  that  they  heard  her  playing  and 
singing." 

"  That  does  not  sound  like  imprison- 
ment." 

"  The  caged  bird  sings." 

" Then  you  think  she  is  a  prisoner?  " 

"  I  think  it  odd  that  she  has  never  come 
out,  not  evei   to  go  to  church." 

"It  is  odd."    ' 

"  This  man  Potts  excited  sufhcient 
interest  in  my  mind  to  lead  me  to  make 
manyenquirits.  I  found,  throughout  the 
county,  that  everybody  utterly  despised 
him.  They  all  thought  that  poor  Ralph 
Brandon  had  been  almost  mad,  and  by 
his  madness  had  ruined  his  family. 
Everybody  believed  that  Potts  had  some- 
how deceived  him,  but  no  one  could  tell 
how.  They  could  not  bring  any  direct 
proof  against  him. 

"  But  I  found  out  in  Brandon  the  sad 
particulars  of  the  final  fate  of  the  poor 
wife  and  her  unfortunate  children.  They 
had  been  sent  away  or  assisted  away  by 
this  Potts  to  America,  and  had  all  died 
either  on  the  way  out  or  shortly  after  they 
had  arrived,  according  to  the  villagers. 
I  did  not  tell  them  what  I  knew,  but  left 
them  to  believe  what  they  chose.     It 


seemed  to  me  that  they  must  have 
received  this  information  from  Potts  him- 
self, who  alone  in  that  poor  community 
would  have  been  able  to  trace  the  fortunes 
of  the  unhappy  emigrants." 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"  I  have  done  all  that  I  could,"  said 
Despard,  in  a  disconsolate  tone,  "  and  I 
suppose  nothing  now  remains  to  be  done. 
When  'vc  hear  again  from  Paolo  there 
may  be  some  new  information  upon  which 
we  can  act." 

"  And  you  can  go  back  to  your  Byzan- 
tine poets." 

"  Yes,  if  you  will  assist  me." 

"  You  know  I  shall  only  be  too 
happy." 

"And  I  shall  be  eternally  gra  -ul 
You  see,  as  I  told  you  before,  th^ie  i*- 
a  field  of  labor  here  for  the  lf^.\.'  of 
music  which  is  like  a  new  \v  .«.',  i 
will  give  you  the  grandest  niu  cal 
compositions  that  you  have  »•  '-  stv;n. 
I  will  let  you  have  the  old  Ir.i  .3  of 
the  saints  who  lived  when  Constan- 
tinople was  the  only  civilized  spot  in 
Europe,  and  the  Christians  there  were 
hurling  back  the  Mohammedans.  You 
shall  sing  the  noblest  songs  that  you 
have   ever  seen." 

"  How — in  Greek  }  You  must  teach 
me  the  alphabet  then." 

"No;  I  will  translate  them  for  you. 
The  Greek  hymns  are  all  in  rhythmical 
prose,  like  the  Te  Deum  and  the  Gloria. 
A  literal  translation  can  be  sung  as  well 
as  the  originals.  You  will  then  enter 
into  the  mind  and  spirit  of  the  ancient 
Eastern  Church  before  the  days  of  the 
schism. 

"Yes,"  continued  Despard,  with  an 
enthusiasm  which  he  did  not  care  to 
conceal,  "  we  wil'  go  together  at  this 
sweet  task,  and  we  will  sing  the  Kad'  EKda- 
TTfv  Tjfiipav,  which  hold  the  same  place  in 


tnm 


31 
SB 


.■«t4t.l 
■  nil 


It:. 
'.iiir ' 


> 


m 
m 

'■'!J| 


hi 


i66 


CORD    AND    CKl.KSK 


C;:j: 


r"  ~»> 


"»l    <f 


Cr::l 

-_  "*  1. 1.     1  • 


I! 


the  Greek  Church  that  the  Te  Deitin 
does  in  ours.  We  will  chant  together 
the  Golden  Canon  of  St.  John  Damas- 
cene —  the  queen  of  canons,  the 
grandest  song  of  '  Christ  is  risen  '  that 
mortals  ever  composed.  Your  heart 
and  mine  will  beat  together  with  one 
feeling  at  the  sublime  choral  strain. 
We  will  sing  the  '  Hymn  of  Victory.' 
We  will  go  together  over  the  songs  of 
St.  Cosmas,  St.  Theophanes,  and  St. 
Tlieodore ;  St.  Gregory,  St.  Anatobus, 
and  St.  Andrew  of  Crete  shall  inspire 
us ;  and  the  thoughts  that  have  kindled 
the  hearts  of  martyrs  at  tlie  st;ike  shall 
exalt  our  souls  to  heaven.  IJut  I  have 
more  than  this.  I  have  some  com- 
positions of  my  own ;  poor  ones,  in- 
deed, yet  an  effort  in  the  right  way. 
They  are  a  collection  of  those  hynnis 
of  the  Primitive  Church  which  are 
contained  in  the  New  Testament.  I 
have  tried  to  set  them  to  music.  They 
are  :  'Worthy  is  the  Lamb,'  'Unto  Him 
that  loved  us,'  '  Great  and  marvellous 
are  thy  works,'  and  the  '  Trisagion.' 
Yes,  we  will  go  together  at  this  lofty 
and  heavenly  work,  and  I  shall  be  able 
to  gain  a  new  interpretation  from  your 
sympathy." 

Despard  spoke  with  a  vehement  enthu- 
siasm that  kindled  his  eyes  with  unusual 
lustre  and  spread  a  glow  over  his  pale 
face.  He  looked  like  some  devotee  under 
a  sudden  i.ispiration.  Mrs.  Thornton 
caught  all  his  enthusiasm ;  her  eyes 
brightened,  and  her  face  also  flushed 
with  excitement. 

"  Whenever  you  are  ready  to  lead  me 
into  that  new  world  of  music,'*  said  shci 
"  I  am  ready  to  follow." 

"  Are  you  willing  to  begin  next 
Monday  ?  " 

"  Yes.    All  my  time  is  my  own." 

"  Then  I  will  come  for  you." 


"Then  I  will  be  waiting  fur  you.  By- 
the-way,  are  you  engaged  for  to-night  ?  ' 

"  No  ;  why  }  " 

"  There  isgoing  to  beafcte  chanipt-tn  , 
It  is  a  ridiculous  thing  for  the  llolliy 
people  to  do  ;  but  I  have  to  go  to  play 
the  patroness.  Mr.  Thornton  does  not 
want  to  go.  Would  you  sacrifice  your- 
self to  my  necessities,  and  allow  me  your 
escort  ?  " 

"  Would  a  thirsty  man  be  willing  to 
accept  a  cooling  draught  ?  "  said  Despard, 
eagerly.  "  You  open  heaven  before  inc, 
and  ask  me  if  I  will  enter." 

His  voice  trembled,  and  he  paused. 

"  You  never  forget  yourself,"  said  Mis. 
Thornton,  with  slight  agitation,  looking 
away  as  she  spoke. 

"  I  will  be  back  at  any  hour  you 
say." 

"  You  will  do  no  such  thing.  Since 
you  are  here  you  must  remain  and  dine, 
and  then  go  with  me.  Do  you  suppose 
I  would  trust  you  }  Why,  if  I  let  you  go, 
you  might  keep  me  waiting  a  wiiole 
hour." 

"  Well,  if  your  will  is  not  law  to  me, 
what  is  .-*  Speak,  and  your  servant  obeys, 
To  stay  will  only  add  to  my  happiness." 

"  Then  let  me  make  you  happy  by 
forcing  you  to  stay." 

Despard's  face  showed  his  feelings,  and 
to  judge  by  its  expression  his  language 
had  not  been  extravagant. 

The  afternoon  passed  quietly.  Dinner 
was  v^erved  up.  Thornton  came  in,  and 
greeted  Despard  with  his  usual  abstrac- 
tion, leaving  his  wife  to  do  the  agreeable, 
After  dinner,  as  usual,  he  prepared  for  a 
nap,  and  Despard  and  Mrs.  Thornton 
started  for  the  fete. 

It  was  to  be  in  some  gardens  at  the 
other  end  of  Holby,  along  the  sbore. 
The  townspeople  had  recently  formed  a 
park  there,   and    this    was  one    of  the 


Ei|  :! 


THE    BYZANTINE    HYMNISTS 


167 


preliminaries  to  its  formal  inauguration. 
Tiie  trees  were  hung  with  iniuimeral)lc 
lamps  of  varied  colors.  Tlicre  were 
hands  of  music,  and  triumphal  arches, 
and  gay  festoons,  and  wreaths  of  flowers, 
and  everything  that  is  usual  at  such  a 
time. 

On  arriving,  Despard  assisted  Mrs. 
Thornton  from  the  carriage  and  offered 
his  arm.  She  took  it,  but  her  hand  rested 
so  lightly  on  it  that  its  touch  was  scarce 
perceptible.  They  walked  around 
through  the  illuminated  paths.  Great 
crowds  of  people  were  there.  All  looked 
with  respectful  pleasure  at  Mrs. Thornton 
and  the  rector. 

"  You  ought  to  be  glad  that  you  have 
come,"  said  she.  "  See  how  these  poor 
people  feel  it !  We  are  not  persons  of 
very  great  consequence,  yet  our  presence 
is  marked  and  enjoyed." 

"  All  places  are  alike  to  me,"  answered 
Despard,  "  when  I  am  with  you.  Still, 
liiere  are  circumstances  about  this  which 
will  make  it  forever  memorable  to  me." 

"  Look  at  those  lights,"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Thornton  suddenly  ;  "  what  varied 
colors?  " 

"  Let  us  walk  into  that  grotto,"  said 
Despard,  turning  toward  a  cool,  dark 
place  which  lay  before  them. 

Here,  at  the  end  of  that  grotto,  was  a 
tree,  at  the  foot  of  which  was  a  seat. 
They  sat  down  and  stayed  for  hours.  In 
the  distance  the  lights  twinkled  and 
music  arose.  They  said  little,  but  lis- 
tened to  the  confused  murmur  which  in 
the  pauses  of  the  music  came  up  from 
afar. 

Then  they  rose  and  walked  back. 
Entering  the  principal  path  a  great 
crowd  streamed  on  which  they  had  to 
face. 

Despard  sighed.  "You  and  I,"  said 
he,  stooping  low  and  speaking  in  a  sad 


la 


voice,  "  arc  compelled  to  go  against  the 
tide." 

"  Shall  we  turn  back  and  go  with  it  ?  " 

"  We  cannot." 

"  Do  you  wish 'to  turn  aside  ?  " 

"  We  cannot.  We  must  walk  against 
the  tide,  and  against  the  rusli  of  men. 
If  we  turn  aside  there  is  nothing  but 
darkness." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  till  they 
reached  the  gate. 

"  The  carriage  has  not  come,"  said 
Mrs.  Thornton. 

"  Do  you  prefer  riding  ?  " 

"No." 

"  It  is  not  far.     Will  you  walk  ?  " 

"With  pleasure." 

They  walked  on  slowly.  About  half- 
way they  met  the  carriage.  Mrs.  Thorn- 
ton ordered  it  back,  saying  that  she  would 
walk  the  rest  of  the  way. 

They  walked  on  slowly,  saying  so  little 
that  at  last  Mrs.  Thornton  began  to 
speak  about  the  music  which  they  had 
proposed  to  undertake.  Despard 's  en- 
thusiasm seemed  to  have  left  him.  His 
replies  were  vague  and  general.  On 
reaching  the  gate  he  stood  still  for  a 
moment  under  the  trees  and  half  turned 
toward  her.  "  You  don't  say  anything 
about  the  music  ?  "  said  she. 

"  That's  because  I  am  so  stupid.  I 
have  lost  my  head.  I  am  not  capable  of 
a  single  coherent  idea." 

"  You  are  thinking  of  something  else 
all  the  time." 

"My  brain  is  in  a  whirl.  Yes,  I  am 
thinking  of  something  else." 

"Of  what?" 

"  I'm  afraid  to  say." 

Mrs.  Thornton  was  silent.  They  en- 
tered the  gate  and  walked  up  the  avenue, 
slowly  and  in  silence.  Despard  made 
one  or  two  efforts  to  stop,  and  then  con- 
tinued.    At  last  they  reached  the  door. 


;:si 

•»  <•« 
..I 

:> 


"  t... 
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iimi. 


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■  I  ■■  •'    i 


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CORD    AND    CRKKSE 


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■■  , 

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r 
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Cr 

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i\ 

The  lights  were  streaming  brightly  from 
the  window.     Desparci  stood  silently. 

"  Will  you  not  come  in  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  he  dreamily. 
"  It  is  rather  too  late,  and  I  must  go. 
Good-night." 

He  held  out  his  hand.  She  offered 
hers,  and  he  took  it.  He  held  it  long 
and  half  stooped  as  though  he  wished  to 
say  something.  She  felt  the  throbbing 
of  his  heart  in  his  hand  as  it  clasped  hers. 
She  said  nothing.  Nor  did  Despard 
seem  able  to  say  anything.  At  last  he 
let  go  her  hand  slowly  and  reluctantly. 

•'  You  will  not  forget  the  music  ? " 
said  he. 

"  No." 

"Good-night." 

He  took  her  hand  again  in  both  of  his. 
As  the  light  shone  through  the  windows 
she  saw  his  face — a  face  full  of  longing 
beyond  words,  and  sadness  unutterable. 

"Good-night,"  she  faltered. 

He  let  go  her  hand,  and  turning  away, 
was  lost  amid  the  gloom.  She  waited 
till  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  had  died 
away,  and  then  went  into  the  house. 

On  ihe  following  morning  Despard 
was  walking  along  when  he  met  her  sud- 
denly at  a  corner  of  the  street.  He 
stopped  with  a  radiant  face,  and  shaking 
hands  with  her,  for  a  moment  was  unable 
to  speak. 

"  This  is  too  much  happiness,"  he  said 
at  last.  "  It  is  like  a  ray  of  light  to  a 
poor  captive  when  you  burst  upon  me  so 
suddenly.    Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  only  going  to  do  a  little 
shopping." 

"I'm  sure  I  wish  that  I  could  accom- 
pany you  to  protect  you." 

"  Well,  why  not  ?  " 

"  On  the  whole,  I  think  that  shopping 
is  not  my  forte,  and  that  my  presence 
would  not  be  essential." 


He  turned,  however,  and  walked  with 
her  some  distance,  as  far  as  the  farthest 
shop  in  the  town.  They  talked  gayly 
and  pleasantly  about  the  f<:te.  "  You 
will  not  forget  the  music,"  said  he,  on 
parting.  "  Will  you  come  next  Monday? 
If  you  don't,  I  won't  be  responsible  for 
the  consequences." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  sir,  that  you  ex- 
pect me  to  come  alone  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  hope  for  anytliing  else." 

"  Why,  of  course,  you  must  cull  for  me. 
If  you  do  not,  I  won't  go." 

Despard's  eyes  brightened. 

"Oh,  then,  since  you  allow  me  so 
sweet  a  privilege,  I  will  go  and  accom- 
pany you." 

"  If  you  fall  me  I  will  stay  at  home," 
said  she  laughingly. 

He  did  not  fail  her,  but  at  the  ap- 
pointed time  went  up  to  the  Grange. 
Some  strangers  were  there,  and  Mrs. 
Thornton  gave  him  a  look  of  deep  disap- 
pointment. The  strangers  were  evidently 
going  to  spend  the  day,  so  Despard,  after 
a  short  call,  withdrew.  Before  he  left, 
Mrs.  Thornton  absented  herself  on  some 
pretext  for  a  few  moments,  and  as  he 
quitted  the  room  she  went  to  the  door 
with  him  and  gave  him  a  note. 

He  walked  straight  home,  holding  the 
note  in  his  hands  till  he  reached  his 
study  ;  then  he  locked  himself  in,  opened 
the  note,  and  read  as  follows : 

"  Dear  Mr.  Despard  :  How  does  it 
happen  that  things  turn  out  just  as  they 
ought  not  ?  I  was  so  anxious  to  go  with 
you  to  the  church  to-day  about  our  music. 
I  know  my  own  powers ;  they  are  not 
contemptible;  they  are  not  uncultivated; 
they  are  simply,  and  wholly,  and  irretriev- 
ably commonplace.  That  much  I  deem 
it  my  duty  to  inform  you. 

"  These  wretched  people,  who  have 


THE    nVZANTINK    HYMNISTS 


169 


)le,  who  have 


spoiled  a  day's  pleasure,  dropped  upon 
mc  as  sudilenly  as  though  they  had  come 
from  the  skies.  Tiiey  leave  on  Thursday 
nioiiiing.  Come  on  Thursday  afternoon. 
If  you  do  not  I  will  never  forgive  you. 
On  that  day  give  up  your  manuscripts 
and  books  for  music  and  the  organ,  and 
allot  some  portion  of  your  time  to, 
•'  Yours, 

On  Thursday  Despard  called,  and  Mrs. 
Thornton  was  able  to  accompany  him. 
The  church  was  an  old  one,  and  had  one 
of  the  best  organs  in  Wales.  Despard 
was  to  play  and  she  to  sing.  He  had  his 
music  ready,  and  the  sheets  were  care- 
fully and  legibly  written  out  from  the 
precious  old  Greek  scores  which  he  loved 
so  dearly  and  prized  so  highly. 

They  began  with  the  canon  for  Easter- 
day  of  St.  John  Damascene,  who,  ac- 
cording to  Despard,  was  the  best  of  the 
Eastern  hymnists.  Mrs.  Thornton's 
voice  was  rich  apd  full.  As  she  came  to 
the  nvaaTdaeuf  ^/lipa — Resurrection  Day — 
it  took  up  a  tone  of  indescribable  exulta- 
tion, blending  with  the  triumph  peal  of 
the  organ.  Despard  added  his  own 
voice — a  deep,  strong,  full-toned  basso — 
and  their  blended  strains  bore  aloft  the 
sublimest  of  utterances,  "  Christ  is 
.^risen  !  " 

Then  followed  a  more  mournful  chant, 
full  of  sadness  and  profound  melancholy, 
the  nhvralov  aairaofiov — the  Last  Kiss — 
the  hymn  of  the  dead,  by  the  same  poet. 

Then  followed  a  sublimer  strain,  the 
hynm  of  St.  Theodore  on  the  Ju  'gment 
— r?}v  7j/Liipav  rijv  ^piKTijv — where  a. I  the 
horrors  of  the  day  of  doom  are  set  forth. 
The  chant  was  commensurate  with  the 
dread  splendors  of  the  theme.  The 
voices  of  the  two  singers  blended  in  per- 
fect concord,    The  sounds  which  were 


thus  wrought  out  bore  themselves 
through  the  vaulted  aisles,  rrturning 
again  to  their  own  ears,  imparting  to 
their  own  hearts  something  of  the  awe 
with  which  in)aghiation  has  enshrouded 
the  Day  of  Days,  and  giving  to  their 
voices  that  saddened  cadence  which  the 
sad  spirit  can  convey  to  its  material 
utterance. 

Despard  then  produced  some  composi- 
tions of  his  own,  made  after  the  manner 
of  the  Eastern  chants,  which  he  insisted 
were  the  primitive  songs  of  the  early 
Church.  The  words  were  those  frag- 
ments of  hymns  which  are  embedded  in 
the  text  of  the  New  Testament.  He 
chose  tirst  the  song  of  the  angels,  which 
was  first  sung  by  "  a  great  voice  out  of 
heaven  " — \M,  1)  aKtjvij  tov  &eov — Behold, 
the  tabernacle  of  God  is  with  men  ! 

The  chant  was  a  marvellous  one.  It 
spoke  of  sorrow  past,  of  grief  stayed,  of 
misery  at  an  end  forever,  of  tears  dried, 
and  a  time  when  "  there  shall  be  no 
more  death,  neither  sorrow  nor  crying." 
There  was  a  gentle  murmur  in  the  flow 
of  that  solemn,  soothing  strain  which 
was  like  the  sighing  of  the  evening  wind 
among  the  hoary  forest  trees  ;  it  soothed 
and  comforted  :  it  brought  hope,  and 
holy  calm,  and  sweet  peace. 

As  Despard  rose  from  the  organ  Mrs. 
Thornton  looked  at  him  with  moistened 
eyes. 

"  I  do  not  know  whether  your  song 
brings  calm  or  unrest,"  said  she  sadly, 
"  but  after  singing  it  I  would  wish  to  die." 

"  It  is  not  the  music,  it  is  the  words," 
answered  Despard,  "  which  bring  before 
us  a  time  when  there  shall  be  no  sorrow 
or  sighing." 

"  May  such  a  time  ever  be  ? "  mur- 
mured she. 

"  That,"  he  replied,  "  it  is  ours  to  aim 
after.    There  is  such  a  world.    In  that 


*1^ 


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If    I 

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'V 
■111 . 

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nil 

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lilt 

II. I 

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170 


CORD    AND    CREESE 


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c::: 

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;?i' 


world  all  wrongs  will  be  righted,  friends 
will  be  reunited,  and  those  severed  here 
through  all  this  earthly  life  will  be  joined 
for  evermore." 

Their  eyes  met.  Their  spirit  lived  and 
glowed  in  that  gaze.  It  was  sad  beyond 
expression,  but  each  one  held  commune 
with  the  other  in  a  mute  intercourse,  more 
eloquent  than  words. 

Despard's  whole  frame  trembled. 
"  Will  you  sing  the  Ave  Maria  ?  "  he 
asked,  in  a  low,  scarce  audible  voice. 
Her  head  drooped.  She  gave  a  convul- 
sive sigh.    He  continued :  "  We  used  to 


sing  it  in  the  old  days,  the  sweet,  never- 
forgotten  days  now  passed  forever.  We 
sang  it  here.     We  stooH  hand  in  hand." 

His  voice  faltered. 

"  Sing,"  he  said,  after  a  time. 

"I  cannot." 

Despard  sighed.  "  Perhaps  it  is  better 
not ;  for  I  feel  as  though  if  you  were  to 
sing  it,  my  heart  would  break." 

"  Do  you  believe  that  hearts  can 
break  ? "  she  asked  gently,  but  with 
indescribable   pathos. 

Despard  looked  at  her  mournfully,  and 
said  not  a  word. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


CLASPED   HANDS 


Their  singing  went  on. 

They  used  to  meet  once  a  week  and 
sing  in  the  church  at  the  organ.  Des- 
pard always  went  up  to  the  Grange 
and  pccompanied  her  to  the  chuvch. 
Yet  he  scarcely  ever  went  at  any  other 
time.  A  stronger  connection  and  a 
deeper  familiarity  arose  between  them, 
which  yet  was  accompanied  by  a  pro- 
found reverence  on  Despard's  part,  that 
never  dimini^/ned,  but  as  the  familiarity 
increased  only  grew  more  tender  and 
more  devoted. 

There  were  many  things  about  their 
music  v/hich  he  had  to  say  to  her.  It 
constituted  a  common  bond  between 
them  on  which  they  could  talk,  and  to 
which  they  could  always  revert.  It 
formed  a  medium  for  the  communion  of 
sou) — a  lofty,  spiritual  intercourse,  where 
they  seemed  to  blend,  even  as  their  voices 
blended,  in  a  purer  realm,  free  from  the 
trouble  of  earth. 


Amid  it  all  Despard  had  so  much  to 
tell  her  about  the  nature  of  the  Eastern 
music  that  he  wrote  out  a  long  letter 
which  he  gave  her  as  they  parted  after 
an  unusually  lengthy  practice.  Part  of  ii 
was  on  the  subject  of  music,  and  tlie 
rest   of  a  different   character. 

The  next  time  that  they  met  she  gave 
him  a  note  in  response  : 

"  Dear  Mr.  Despard  :  Why  am  I 
not  a  seraph,  endowed  with  musical 
powers  beyond  mortal  reach  ?  You  tell 
me  many  things,  and  never  seem  to 
imagine  that  they  are  all  beyond  me. 
You  never  seem  to  think  that  I  am  hope- 
lessly commonplace.  You  are  kind  in 
doing  what  you  do,  but  where  is  the 
good   where  one  is  so  stupid  as  I  am  ? 

"  I  suppose  you  have  given  n"  visiting 
the  Grange  forever.  I  don't  call  your 
coming  to  take  me  to  the  church  v/s//s. 
I  suppose  I  may  as  well  give  you  up.    It 


m 


CLASPED    HANDS 


171 


is  as  difficult  to  get  you  here  as  if  you 

were  the  Grand  Lama  of  Thibet. 

"Amid  all  my  stupidities  I  have  two 

or  three  ideas  which  may  be  useful  in  our 

music,  if  I  can  only  put  them  in  practice. 

Bear  with  me,  and  deal  gently  with 

"  Yours  despondingly, 

u  'Y  'p  >> 

To  this  Despard  replied  in  a  note 
which  he  gave  her  at  their  next  meeting, 
calling  her  "Dear  Seraph,"  and  signing 
himself  "  Grand  Lama."  After  this  they 
always  called  each  other  by  these  names. 
Gr^Md  Lama  was  an  odd  name,  but  it 
became  the  sweetest  of  sounds  to  Des- 
pard since  it  was  uttered  by  her  lips — the 
sweetest,  the  most  musical,  and  the 
tenderest.  As  to  himself  he  knew  not 
what  to  call  tltis  dear  companion  of  his 
youth,  but  the  name  Seraph  came  into 
use,  and  grew  to  be  associated  with  her, 
until  at  last  he  never  called  her  tnything 
else. 

Yet  after  this  he  used  to  go  to  the 
Grange  more  frequently.  He  could  not 
stay  away.  His  steps  wandered  there 
irresistibly.  An  uncontrollable  impulse 
forced  him  there.  She  was  always  alone 
awaiting  him,  generally  with  a  sweet  con- 
fusion of  face  and  a  tenderness  of  greeting 
which  made  him  feel  ready  to  fall  on  his 
knees  before  her.  How  else  could  he  feel  ? 
Was  she  not  always  in  his  thoughts  ? 
Were  not  all  his  sleeping  hours  one  long 
dream  of  her.>  Were  not  all  his  waking 
thought?,  filled  with  her  radiant  presence  ? 

"  How  is  it  under  our  control 
To  love  or  not  to  love  *  " 

Did  he  know  what  it  was  that  he  felt 
for  her?  He  never  thought.  Enough 
that  he  felt.  And  that  feeling  was  one 
long  agony  of  intense  longing  and  yearn- 
ing after  her.  Had  not  all  his  life  been 
filled  by  that  one  bri<»-h'.  image  ? 


Youth  gave  it  to  him.  After-years 
could  not  efface  it.  The  impress  of  her 
face  was  upon  his  heart.  Her  voice  was 
always  in  his  ears.  Every  word  that  she 
had  ever  spoken  to  him  was  treasured  up 
in  his  memory  and  heart  with  an  avarice 
of  love  which  prevented  any  one  word 
from  even  being  forgotten. 

At  church  and  at  home,  during  service 
and  out  of  it,  in  the  street  or  in  the  study, 
he  saw  only  one  face,  and  heard  only  one 
voice.  Amid  the  bustle  of  committee 
meetings  he  was  conscious  of  her  image — 
a  sweet  face  smiling  on  him,  a  tender 
voice  saying  "  Lama."  Was  there  ever  so 
musical  and  so  dear  a  word  as  "  Lama  "  ? 
For  him,  never. 

The  hunger  of  his  longing  grew 
stronger  every  day.  That  strong,  proud, 
self-secluded  nature  of  his  was  most  in- 
tense in  all  its  feelings,  and  dwelt  with 
concentrated  passion  upon  this  one  object 
of  its  idolatry.  He  had  never  had  any 
other  object  but  this  one. 

A  happy  boyhood  passed  in  the  society 
of  this  sweet  playmate,  then  a  young 
girl  of  his  own  age  ;  a  happy  boyhood 
here  in  Holby,  where  they  had  always 
been  inseparable,  wandering  hand  in 
hand  along  the  shore  or  over  the  hills ; 
a  happy  boyhood  where  she  was  the  one 
and  only  companion  whom  he  knew  or 
cared  for — this  was  the  sole  legacy  of  his 
early  life.  Leaving  Holby  he  hrd  left 
her,  but  had  never  forgotten  her.  He 
had  carried  with  him  the  tender  memory 
of  this  bright  being,  and  cherisiied  his 
undying  fondness,  not  knowing  what  that 
fondness  meant.  He  had  returned  to 
find  her  married,  and  severed  from  him 
forever,  at  least  in  this  life.  When  he 
found  that  he  had  lost  her  he  began  to 
understand  how  dear  she  was.  All  life 
stood  before  him  aimless,  pointless,  and 
meaningless  without  her.     He  came  back, 


;:;s 


"in. 


"IB 
111" 

hi. 

!li 
ill 

III 

>  ;i 
I'll 


172 


CORD    AND    CREESE 


c:v; 
h 

■-    ,  I 

•  M' 


but  the  old  intercourse  could  not  be  re- 
newed ;  she  could  not  be  his,  and  he  could 
only  live,  and  love,  and  endure.  Perhaps 
it  would  have  been  wiser  if  he  had  at 
once  left  Holby  and  sought  out  some 
other  abode.  But  the  discovery  of  his 
love  was  gradual ;  it  came  through  suffer- 
ing and  anguish  ;  and  when  he  knew 
that  his  love  was  so  intense  it  was  then 
impossible  to  leave.  To  be  near  her,  to 
breathe  the  same  air,  to  see  her  face 
occasionally,  to  nurse  his  old  memories, 
to  hoard  up  new  remembrances  of  her 
words  and  looks — these  now  became  the 
chief  occupation  of  his  hours  of  solitude, 
and  the  only  happiness  left  him  in  his 
life. 

One  day  he  went  up  with  a  stronger 
sense  of  desolation  in  his  heart  tnan 
usual,  going  up  to  see  her  in  order  to  gel 
consolation  from  the  sight  of  her  face 
and  the  sound  of  her  voice.  Their  former 
levity  had  given  place  to  a  seriousness 
of  manner  which  was  very  different.  A 
deep,  intense  joy  shone  in  the  eyes  of 
each  at  meeting,  but  that  quick  repartee 
and  light  badinage  which  they  had  used 
of  old  had  been  dropped. 

Music  was  the  one  thing  of  which  they 
could  speak  without  fear.  Despard  could 
lalk  of  his  Byzantine  poets,  and  the 
chants  of  the  Eastern  Church,  without 
being  in  danger  of  reawakening  painful 
memories.  The  piano  stood  close  by, 
and  always  afforded  a  convenient  mode 
of  distracting  attention  when  it  became 
too  absorbed  in  one  another. 

For  Mrs.  Thornton  did  not  repel 
him  ;  she  did  not  resent  his  longing ; 
she  did  not  seem  forgetful  of  what 
he  so  well  remembered.  How  was  it 
with  her  who  had  given  her  hand  to 
another  ? 

•'  What  she  felt  the  while 
Dare  he  think?" 


Yet  there  were  times  when  he  thought 
it  possible  that  she  might  feel  as  he  did. 
The  thought  brought  joy,  but  it  also 
brought  fear.  For,  if  the  struggle  against 
this  feeling  needed  all  the  strength  of  his 
nature,  what  must  it  cost  her  ?  If  she  had 
such  a  struggle  as  he,  how  could  she  en- 
dure it  }  Then,  as  he  considered  this,  he 
thought  to  himself  that  he  would  rather 
she  would  not  love  him  than  love  him  at 
such  a  cost.  He  was  willing  to  sacrifice 
his  own  heart.  He  wished  only  to  adore 
her,  and  was  content  that  she  should 
receive,  and  permit,  and  accept  his 
adoration,  herself  unmoved— a  passion- 
less divinity. 

In  their  intercourse  it  was  strange  how 
frequently  there  were  long  pauses  of  per- 
fect silence,  during  which  neither  spoke 
a  word.  Sometimes  each  sat  looking  at 
the  f^oor  ;  sometimes  they  looked  at  one 
another,  as  though  they  could  read  eacli 
other's  thoughts,  and  by  the  mere  gaze 
of  their  earnest  eyes  could  hold  ample 
spiritual  communion. 

On  one  such  occasion  they  stood  by 
the  window  looking  out  upon  the  lawn, 
but  seeing  nothing  in  that  abstracted 
gaze.  Despard  stood  facing  her,  close  to 
her.  Her  hand  was  hanging  by  her  side. 
He  stooped  and  took  that  little  slender 
hand  in  his.  As  he  did  so  he  trembled 
from  head  to  foot.  As  he  did  so  a  faint 
flush  passed  over  her  face.  Her  head  fell 
forward.  Despard  held  her  hand  and 
she  did  not  withdraw  it.  Despard  drew 
her  slightly  toward  him.  She  looked  up 
into  his  face  with  large,  eloquent  eyes, 
sad  beyond  all  description,  yet  speaking 
things  which  thrilled  his  soul.  He  looked 
down  upon  her  with  eyes  that  told  her 
all  that  was  in  his  heart.  She  turned  her 
head  away. 

Despard  clung  to  her  hand  as  though 
that  hand  were  his  life,  his  hope,  his  joy— 


m 


JOURNAL  OF  PAOLO  LANGHETTI 


173 


as  though  that  alone  could  save  him  from 
some  abyss  of  despair  into  which  he  was 
falling.  His  lips  moved.  In  vain.  No 
audible  sound  broke  that  intense  stillness 
in  which  the  beating  and  throbbing  of 
those  two  forlorn  hearts  could  be  heard. 
His  lips  moved,  but  all  sound  died  away 
upon  them. 

At  last  a  stronger  effort  broke  the 
silence. 

"  Teresa  1 " 

It  was  a  strange  tone,  a  tone  of  long- 
ing unutterable,  a  tone  like  that  which  a 
dying  man  might  use  in  calling  before 
him  one  most  dear.  And  all  the  pent-up 
feeling  of  years  rushed  forth  in  concen- 
trated energy,  and  was  born*^  to  iier  ea's 
in  the  sound  of  that  one  word.  She 
looked  up  with  the  same  glance  as 
before. 

"  Little  playmate,"  said  he,  in  a  tone 
of  infinite  sweetness,  "  have  you  ever  for- 
gotten the  old  days  ?  Do  you  remember 
when  you  and  I  last  stood  hand  in 
hand  ?  " 

His  voice  sounded  like  the  utterance  of 
tears,  as  though,  if  he  could  have  wept, 
he  would  then  have  wept  as  no  man 


wept  before ;  but  his  eyes  were  dry 
through  his  manhood,  and  all  that  tears 
can  express  were  shown  forth  in  his 
tone. 

As  he  began  to  speak  her  head  fell 
again.  As  he  ended  she  looked  up  as 
before.  Her  lips  moved.  She  whispered 
but  one  word : 

"  Courtenay ! " 

She  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears  and 
sank  into  a  chair.  And  Despard  stood, 
not  daring  even  to  soothe  her,  for  fear 
lest  in  that  vehement  convulsion  of  his 
soul  all  his  self-command  should  give 
way  utterly. 

At  hngth  Mrs.  Thornton  rose. 
"  Lama,"  said  she,  at  last,  in  a  low, 
sad   voice,  "let  us  go  to  the  piano." 

"  Will  you  sing  the  Ave  Maria  ?"  he 
asked  mournfully. 

"  I  dare  not,"  said  she  hastily.  "  No, 
anything  but  that.  I  will  sing  Rossini's 
Ctijtis  Am'majH." 

'1  hen  followed  those  words  which  tell 
in  lofty  strains  of  a  broken  heart. 

"  Cujiis  aniniam  geincntem 
Contrislatetn  et  dolentem 
Pertransivit  gladius  !  " 


<-9 

»m 

:> 


li.: 


CHAPTER  XXVII 


JOURNAL  OF  PAOLO  LANGHETTI 


When  Mrs.  Thornton  saw  Despard 
next  she  showed  him  a  short  note  which 
she  had  just  received  from  her  brother, 
accompanying  his  journal.  Nearly  two 
years  !iad  elapsed  since  she  had  last 
heard  from   him. 

His  journal  was  written  as  before  at 
long  intervals,  and  was  as  follows  : 


Halifax,  April  10,  1847. — I  exist  here, 
but  nothing  more.  Nothing  is  offered  by 
this  small  colonial  town  that  can  afford 
interest.  Life  goes  on  monotonously. 
The  officers  and  their  families  arc  what 
they  are  everywhere.  They  are  amiable 
and  pleasant,  and  try  to  get  the  best  out 
of  life.     The  townspeople  are  hospitable. 


\  . 


174 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


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and  there    is    much  refinement  among 
them. 

But  I  live  for  the  most  part  in  a  cottage 
outside  of  the  town,  where  I  can  be 
secluded  and  free  from  observation. 
Near  my  house  is  the  Northwest  Arm. 
I  cross  it  in  a  boat,  and  am  at  once  in  a 
savage  wilderness.  From  the  summit  of 
a  hill,  appropriately  named  Mount  Misery, 
I  can  look  down  upon  this  city  which  is 
bordered  by  such  a  wilderness. 

The  winter  has  passed  since  my  last 
entry,  and  nothing  has  occurred.  I  have 
learned  to  skate.  I  went  out  on  a  moose- 
hunt  with  Colonel  Despard.  The  gigantic 
horns  of  a  moose  which  I  killed  are  now 
over  the  door  of  my  studio.  I  have  joined 
in  some  festivities,  and  have  done  the 
honors  of  my  house.  It  is  an  old- 
fashioned  wooden  structure  which  they 
call  the  Priory. 

So  the  winter  has  passed,  and  April 
is  now  here.  In  this  country  there  is  no 
spring.  Snow  is  yet  on  the  ground. 
Winter  is  transformed  gradually  into 
summer.  I  must  keep  up  my  fires  till 
June,  they  say. 

During  the  winter  I  have  guarded  my 
treasure  well.  I  took  a  house  on  purpose 
to  have  a  home  for  her.  But  her  melan- 
choly continued,  and  the  state  of  mind  in 
which  I  found  her  still  endures.  Will 
it  ever  change?  I  gave  out  here  that 
she  was  a  relative  who  was  in  ill  health. 
But  the  winter  has  passed,  and  she  re- 
mains precisely  the  same.  Can  she  live 
on  long  in  this  mood  ? 

At  length  I  have  decided  to  try  a  change 
for  her.  The  Holy  Sisterhood  of  Mercy 
have  a  convent  here,  a  here  she  may  find 
a  higher  and  purer  atn  c>  ,>hf  f:  t'.m  any- 
where else.  There  I  ha- 1  placeu  her. 
I  have  told  nothing  of  her  storv.  They 
think  she  is  in  guf  lor  t.ie  death  uf 
friends.    They   have     et  ;v^ed   her  wiih 


that  warm  sympathy  and  holy  love  which 
it  is  the  aim  of  their  life  to  cherish. 

"  O  mater  alma  Christ!  carriss>ma, 
Te  nunc  flagitant  devota  corda  et  ora, 
Ora  pro  nobis !  " 

August  5,  1847. — The  summer  goes  on 
pleasantly.  A  bracing  climate,  a  cool 
sea  breeze,  fishing  and  hunting  in  the 
forests,  sailing  in  the  harbor — these  are 
the  amusements  which  one  can  find  if  he 
has  the  leisure. 

She  has  been  among  the  Sisterhood 
of  Mercy  for  some  months.  The  deep 
calm  of  that  holy  retreat  has  soothed  her, 
but  only  this  much  that  her  melancholy 
has  not  lessened,  but  grown  more  placid. 
She  is  in  the  midrt  of  those  whose 
thoughts  are  habitually  directed  to  that 
world  which  she  longs  after.  The  home 
from  which  she  has  been  exiled  is  the 
desire  of  their  hearts.  They  aim  after 
that  place  for  which  she  longs  with  so 
deep  a  longing.  There  is  sympathy  in 
all  those  hearts  with  one  another.  Siie 
hears  in  their  chants  and  prayers  those 
hopes  and  desires,  and  these  are  but  the 
utterances  of  what  she  feels. 

Here  they  sing  the  matchless  Rhythm 
of  Bernard  de  Morlaix,  and  in  these 
words  she  finds  the  highest  expression 
that  human  words  can  give  of  the 
thoughts  and  desires  of  her  soul.  They 
tell  me  that  the  first  time  they  sang  it, 
as  they  came  to  this  passage  she  burst 
into  tears  and  sank  down  almost  sense- 
less : 

"  O  bona  p.itria !   Iiimina  sobria  te  speculantnr, 
Ad  tua  nomina  sobria  liimina  collacrimantur  ■ 
Est  tua  mentio  pectoris  unctis,  cura  doloris, 
Concipientibus  aethera  mentibus  ignis  amoris." 

November  17. — The  winter  must  soon 
be  here  again. 

Mv  t5  dasure  is  well  guarded  by  the 
Holy  Sisterhood.     They  revere  her  and 


i  !ii,i- 


JOURNAL  OF  PAOLO  LANGHETTI 


must  soon 


look  upon  her  as  a  saint.  They  tell  me 
wonderful  things  about  her  which  have 
sunk  into  my  soul.  They  think  that  she 
is  another  Saint  Cecilia,  or  rather  Saint 
Teresa,  the  Saint  of  Love  and  Longing. 

She  told  them  once  that  she  was  not 
a  Catholic,  but  that  any  form  of  worship 
was  sweet  and  precious  to  her — most  of 
all,  the  lofty  utterances  of  the  prayers 
and  hymns  of  the  Church.  She  will  not 
listen  to  dogmas,  but  says  that  God 
wishes  only  love  and  praise.  Yet  she 
joins  in  all  their  rites,  and  in  this  house, 
where  Love  is  chiefly  adored,  she  sur- 
passes all  in  the  deep  love  of  her  heart. 

January  2,  1848. — I  have  seen  her  for 
the  first  time  in  many  months.  She 
smiled.  I  never  saw  her  snhile  before, 
except  once  in  the  ship,  when  I  told  my 
name  and  made  her  mother  take  my 
place  in   the  cabin. 

She  smiled.  It  was  as  if  an  angel  from 
heaven  had  smiled  on  me.  Do  I  not  be- 
lieve that  she  is  one  ? 

They  all  say  that  she  is  unchanged. 
Her  sadness  has  had  no  abatement.  On 
that  meeting  she  made  an  effort  for  my 
sake  to  stoop  to  me.  Perhaps  she  saw 
how  my  very  soul  entreated  her  to  speak. 
So  she  spoke  of  the  Sisterhood,  and  said 
she  loved  them  all.  I  asked  her  if  she 
was  happier  here  than  at  my  house.  She 
said  "  No."  I  did  not  know  whether  to 
feel  rejoiced  or  sorrowful.  Then  she 
told  me  something  which  has  filled  me 
with  wonder  ever  since. 

She  asked  me  if  I  had  been  making 
enquiries  about  her  family,  for  I  had  said 
that  I  would.  I  told  her  that  I  had. 
She  asked  what  I  had  heard.  I  hesitated 
for  a  moment,  and  at  last,  seeing  that  she 


»75 

his  uncle  here.  She  listened  without 
emotion,  and  at  last,  looking  earnestly  at 
mc,  said  : 

"  He  is  not  dead  !  " 

I  stood  amazed.  I  had  seen  the  very 
newspapers  which  contained  an  account 
of  his  death.  I  had  read  the  letters  of 
Courtenay  Despard,  which  showed  how 
painstaking  his  search  had  been.  Had 
he  not  travelled  to  every  place  where  he 
could  hear  anything  of  the  Brandons  ? 
Had  he  not  written  at  the  very  outset 
wherever  he  could  hope  to  hear  any- 
thing.?    I  did  not  know  what  to  iay. 

For  Louis  Brandon  is  known  to  have 
fallen  overboard  from  the  ship  Java  dur- 
ing a  tremendous  monsoon,  several  hun- 
dred miles  away  from  any  land.  How 
could  he  possibly  have  escaped  death  ? 
The  captain,  whom  Courtenay  Despard 
foun  '  out  and  questioned,  said  he  threw 
over  .  hencoop  and  a  pail.  These  could 
not  sa\  :;  him.  Despard  also  enquired  for 
months  from  every  ship  that  arrived  from 
those  parts,  but  could  learn  nothing. 
The  next  ship  that  came  from  New 
South  Wales  foundered  off  the  coast 
of  Africa,  Three  pasij^ngers  escpped 
to  Sierra  Leone,  and  thence  10  England. 
Despard  learned  their  names,  but  they 
were  not  Brandon.  The  information 
which  one  of  them,  named  Wheeler,  g  e 
to  the  ship  owners  afforded  no  hope  of  s 
having  been  found  by  this  ship,  even  it 
had  been  possible.  It  was  simply  impos- 
sible, however,  for  the  Falcon  di'  not 
pass  the  spot  where  poor  Brand'  fell 
overboard  till  months  had  elap  ^^u 

All  these  things  I  knew,  a,  J  they 
came  to  my  mind.  She  did  not  notice 
my  emotion,  but  after  a  pause  she  U  oked 


I J 


was  superior  to  any  sorrow  of  bereave-   at  me  again  witli  the  same  earnestness, 
ment,  I  told  her  all  about  the  sad  fate  of   and  said : 


)•» 

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her  brother  Louis,  which  your  old  friend 
Courtenay  Despard  had  communicated  to 


"  My  brother  Frank  is  not  dead. " 
This  surprised  me  as  much  as  tin    ulier. 


176 


CORD    AND    CREESE 


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"  Are  you  sure  ?  "  said  I  reverently. 

"  I  am." 

"  How  (lid  you  learn  this  ?  All  who 
have  enquired  say  that  both  of  your 
brothers   arc   dead." 

"  77/^/  told  me,"  said  she,  "many 
times.  T/iey  said  that  my  brothers  had 
not  come  among  them  to  their  own  place 
as  they  would  have  had  to  come  if  they 
had  left   the  earth." 

She  spoke  solemnly  and  with  mysteri- 
ous emphasis.  I  said  nothing,  for  I 
knew  not   what   to  say. 

On  going  home  and  thinking  over  this, 
I  saw  that  she  believed  herself  to  have 
the  power  of  communicating  with  the 
departed.  I  did  not  know  whether  this 
intelligence,  which  she  believed  she  had 
received,  had  been  gained  in  her  trance, 
or  whether  she  thought  that  she  had 
recent  interviews  with  those  on  high.  I 
went  to  see  her  again,  and  asked  this. 
She  told  me  that  once  since  her  re- 
covery she  had  fallen  into  that  state, 
and  had  been,  as  she  called  it,  "in  her 
home." 

I  ventured  to  ask  her  more  about  what 
she  considered  a  communion  with  the 
departed.  She  tried  to  speak,  but  looked 
like  one  who  could  not  find  words.  It 
was  still  the  same  as  before.  She  has  in 
her  mind  thoughts  which  cannot  be  ex- 
pressed by  any  human  language.  She 
will  not  be  able  to  express  them  till  such 
a  language  is  obtained.  Yet  she  gave 
me  one  idea,  which  has  been  in  my  mind 
ever  since. 

She  said  that  the  language  of  those 
among  whom  she  has  been  has  nothing 
on  earth  which  is  like  it  except  music. 
If  our  music  could  be  developed  to  an 
indefiniie  extent  it  might  at  last  begin  to 
resemble  it.  Yet  she  said  that  she  some- 
times heard  strains  here  in  the  Holy 
Mass  which  reminded   her  of  that  lan- 


guage, and  might  be  intelligible  to  an 
immortal. 

This  is  the  idea  which  she  imparted  to 
me,  and  I  have  thought  of  it  ever  since. 

August  23. — Great  things  have  haj)- 
pened. 

When  I  last  wrote  I  had  gained  the 
idea  of  transforming  music  into  a  lan- 
guage. The  thought  came  to  me  that  I, 
who  thirst  for  music,  and  love  it  and 
cherish  it  above  all  things — to  whom  it  is 
an  hourly  comfort  and  solace — that  I 
might  rise  to  utter  forth  to  her  sounds 
which  she  might  hear,  I  had  already 
seen  enough  of  her  spiritual  tone  to  know 
what  sympathies  and  emotions  might 
best  be  acted  upon.  I  saw  her  several 
times,  so  as  to  stimulate  myself  to  a 
higher  and  purer  exercise  of  whatever 
genius  I  may  have. 

I  was  encouraged  by  the  thought  that 
from  my  earliest  childhood,  as  1  began  to 
learn  to  speak  so  I  began  to  learn  to  sinL;. 
As  I  learned  to  read  printed  type  so  I 
read  printed  music.  The  thoughts  of 
composers  in  music  thus  became  as  lej^i- 
ble  to  me  as  those  of  composers  in  words, 
So  all  my  life  my  knowledge  has  widened, 
and  with  that  knowledge  my  love  has 
increased.  This  has  been  my  one  aim 
in  life — my  joy  and  my  delight.  Thus  it 
came  to  pass  that  at  last,  when  alone 
with  my  Cremona,  I  could  utter  all  my 
own  thoughts,  and  pour  forth  every  feel- 
ing that  was  in  my  heart.  This  was  a 
language  with  me,  I  spoke  it,  yet  there 
was  no  one  who  could  understand  it  fully. 
Only  one  had  I  ever  met  with  to  whom  I 
told  this  besides  yourself — she  could  ac- 
company me— she  could  understand  and 
follow  me  wherever  I  led,  I  could  sjicnk 
this  language  to  her,  and  she  could  hear 
and  comprehend.  This  one  was  my 
Bice, 

Now  that  she  had  told  me  this  I  grasped 


'\  li 


JOURNAL    OF    PAOLO    LANflHElTI 


ni 


jible  to  an 


imparted  to 
ever  since. 
have  liap- 

gaincd  the 
into  a  lan- 
o  nie  tliat  1, 
love   it  and 
o  whom  it  is 
lace — that  1 
>  her  sounds 
had  already 
tone  to  know 
)tions   might 
V  her  seveial 
myself  to  a 
of   whatencr 

thought  that 
as  1  began  to 
learn  to  sing. 
ed  type  so  I 
thoughts  of 
;came  as  Icf^i- 
»sers  in  wonls. 
;  has  widened, 
my   love  has 
i  my  one  aim 
ight.    Thus  it 
t,  when   alone 
I  utter  all  my 
rth  every  fed- 
This  was  a 
;e  it,  yet  there 
M-stand  it  fully. 
ith  to  whom  1 
she  could  ac- 
nderstand  and 
I  could  si^ealc 
she  could  hear 
one    was  my 


at  the  thought.  Never  before  had  the 
idea  entered  my  mind  of  trying  upon  her 
the  effect  of  my  music.  I  had  given  it  up 
for  her  sake  while  she  was  with  me,  not 
hking  to  cause  any  sound  to  disturb  her 
rapt  and  melancholy  mood. 

But  now  I  began  to  understand  how  it 
was  with  her.  She  had  learned  the  lan- 
ouage  of  the  highest  places  and  had  heard 
the  New  Song.  She  stood  far  above  me, 
and  if  she  could  not  understand  my  music 
it  would  be  from  the  same  reason  that 
a  grown  man  cannot  comprehend  the 
words  of  a  lisping,  stammering  child. 
She  had  that  language  in  its  fulness.  I 
had  it  only  in  its  crudest  rudiments. 

Now  Bice  learned  my  words  and  fol- 
lowed me.  She  knew  my  utterance.  I 
was  the  master — she  the  disciple.  But 
he'e  was  one  who  could  lead  me.  I 
,vould  be  the  follower  and  disciple. 
From  her  I  could  learn  more  than  in  all 
my  life  I  could  ever  discover  by  my  ov.'n 
unassisted  efforts. 

It  was  mine,  therefore,  to  struggle  to 
overcome  the  lisping,  stammering  utter- 
ance of  my  purely  earthly  music ;  to  gain 
from  her  some  knowledge  of  the  mood  of 
that  holier,  heavenly  expression,  so  that 
at  last  I  might  be  able  in  some  degree  to 
speak  to  this  exile  the  language  of  the 
home  which  she  loved  ;  that  we,  by  hokl- 
ing  commune  in  this  language,  might 
rise  together  to  a  higher  spiritual  realm, 
and  that  she  in  her  solitude  might  re- 
ceive at  least  some  associate. 

So  I  proposed  to  her  to  come  back  and 
stay  with  me  again.  She  consented  at 
once. 

Before  that  memorable  evening  I 
purilied  my  heart  by  fasting  and  prayer. 
1  was  like  one  who  was  seeking  to  ascend 
into  heaven  to  take  part  in  that  celestial 
communion,  to  join  in  the  New  Song,  the 
music  of  the  angels. 


By  fasting  and  prayer  I  sought  so  to 
ascend,  and  to  find  thoughts  anil  fit 
utterance  for  those  thoughts.  I  looked 
upon  my  office  as«  similar  to  that  of  the 
holy  prophets  of  old.  I  felt  that  I  had  a 
power  of  utterance  if  the  Divine  One 
would  only  inspire. 

I  fasted  and  prayed  that  so  I  might 
reduce  this  grosser  material  frame,  and 
sharpen  and  quicken  every  nerve,  and 
stimulate  every  fibre  of  the  brain.  So 
alone  could  I  most  nearly  approach  to  the 
com'Tune  of  spirits.  Thus  had  those 
sainu  and  prophets  of  old  done  when 
they  had  entered  upon  the  search  after 
this  communion,  and  they  had  received 
their  reward,  even  the  visitation  of  angels 
and  the  vision  of  the  blessed. 

A  prophet — yes — now,  in  these  days, 
it  is  left  for  the  prophet  to  utter  forth  his 
inspiration  by  no  other  way  than  t!;at  of 
music. 

So  I  fasted  and  prayed.  I  took  up  the 
words  from  the  holy  prie?  iioo(.\  and  I 
said,  as  they  say : 

"  Miinda  cor  ineiim,  ac  labia  mea,  Omnipotens  Deus, 
(jui  labia  Isaia;  prophetae,  calculo  mundasti  ignito  !  " 

For  so  Isaiah  had  been  exalted  till  he 
heard  the  language  of  heaven,  the  music 
of  the  seraphim. 

She,  my  divinity,  my  adored,  enshrined 
again  in  my  house,  bore  herself  as  before 
— kind  to  me  and  gentle  beyond  all 
expression,  but  with  thoughts  of  her  own 
that  placed  between  us  a  gulf  as  wide  as 
that  which  separates  the  mortal  from  the 
immortal. 

On  that  evening  she  was  with  me 
in  the  parlor  which  looks  out  upon 
the  Northwest  Arm.  The  moon  shone 
down  there,  the  dark,  rocky  hills  on  the 
opposite  side  rose  in  heavy  masses.  The 
servants  were  away  in  the  city.  We 
were  alone. 


tli-i 


178 


CORD    AND    CREESE 


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# 

Ah,  my  Cremona  !  if  a  material  instru- 
ment were  ever  able  to  utter  forth  sounds 
to  which  immortals  might  listen,  thou 
best  gift  of  my  father,  thou  canst  utter 
them ! 

"  You  are  pale,"  said  she,  for  she  was 
always  kindly  and  affectionate  as  a  mother 
with  a  child,  as  a  guardian  angel  with  his 
ward.  "  You  are  pale.  You  always  for- 
get yourself  for  others,  and  now  you 
suffer  anxiety  for  me.  Do  not  suffer.  I 
have  my  consolations." 

I  did  not  make  any  reply,  but  took  my 
Cremona,  and  sought  to  lift  up  all  my 
soul  to  a  level  vith  hern,  to  that  lofty 
realm  where  her  spirit  ever  wandered, 
that  so  I  might  not  be  comfortless.  She 
started  at  the  first  tone  that  I  struck  forth, 
and  looked  at  me  with  her  large,  earnest 
eyes.  I  found  my  own  gaze  fixed  on  hers, 
rapt  and  entranced.  Now  there  came 
at  Ip  t  the  inspiration  so  longed  for,  so 
s'^Uj^;,  '  .  It  came  from  where  her  very 
soul  looked  fc^*^  into  mine,  out  of  the 
glory  of  her  luotrous,  spiritual  eyes. 
They  grew  brighter  with  an  almost 
immortal  radiance,  and  all  my  heart  rose 
up  till  it  seemed  ready  to  burst  in  the 
frenzy  of  that  inspired  momtj  t. 

Now  I  felt  the  spirit  of  proph';cy,  I  felt 
the  afflatus  of  the  inspired  sibyl  or  seer, 
and  the  voice  of  music,  which  for  a  life- 
time I  had  sought  to  utter  forth,  now  at 
last  sounded  as  I  longed  that  it  should 
sound. 

I  exulted  in  that  sound.  I  knew  that  at 
last  T  had  caught  the  tone,  and  from  her. 
I  knew  its  meaning  and  exulted,  as  the 
poet  or  the  musician  must  always  exult 
when  some  idea  sublimer  than  any  which 
he  has  ever  known  is  wafted  over  his 
upturned  spiritual  gaze. 

She  shared  my  exultation.  There 
came  over  her  face  swiftly,  like  the  light- 
ning flash,  an  expression  of  surprise  and 


joy.  So  the  face  of  the  exile  lightens  up 
at  the  throbbing  of  his  heart,,  when,  in 
some  foreign  land,  he  suddenly  and  unex- 
pectedly hears  the  sound  of  his  own 
language.  So  his  eyes  light  up,  and  his 
heart  beats  faster,  and  even  amid  the 
very  longing  of  his  soul  after  home,  the 
desire  after  that  home  is  appeased  by 
these  its  most  hallowed  associations. 

And  the  full  meaning  of  that  eloquent 
gaze  of  hers,  as  her  soul  looked  into  inine, 
became  all  apparent  to  me.  "  Speak  on," 
it  said;  "sound  on,  oh,  strains  of  the 
language  of  my  home.  Unheard  so  long, 
now  heard  at  last." 

I  knew  that  I  was  compreheiulecl. 
Now  all  the  feelings  o*^  the  melanciioly 
months  came  rushing  over  my  heart,  and 
all  the  holiest  ideas  which  had  animated 
my  life  came  thronging  into  my  mind, 
bursting  forth  into  tones,  as  though  of 
their  own  accord,  involuntanly,  as  words 
come  forth  in  a  dream. 

"  Oh,  thou,"  I  said,  in  that  language 
which  my  own  lips  could  not  utter — "  oh, 
thou  whom  I  saved  from  the  tomb,  the 
life  to  which  I  restored  thee  is  irksome; 
but  there  remains  a  life  to  which  at  last 
thou  shalt  attain. 

"  Oh,  thou,"  I  said,  "  whose  spirit 
moves  among  the  immortals,  I  am  mortal 
yet  immortal!  My  soul  seeks  commune 
with  them.  I  yearn  after  that  com- 
munion. Life  here  on  earth  is  not  more 
dear  to  me  than  to  thee.  Help  me  to 
rise  above  it.  Thou  hast  been  on  high, 
show  me  too  the  way. 

"  Oh,  thou,"  I  said,  "  who  hast  seen 
things  ineffable,  impart  to  me  thy  con- 
fidence. Let  me  know  thy  secret. 
Receive  me  as  the  companion  of  thy  soul 
Shut  not  thyself  up  in  solitude.  Listen, 
I  can  speak  thy  language. 

"  Attend,"  I  cried,  "  for  it  is  not  for 
nothing  that   the  Divine  One  has  sent 


JOURNAL  OF  PAOLO  LANGHF.TTl 


179 


thee  back.  Live  not  these  mortal  clays 
in  loneliness  and  in  uselessness.  Regard 
thy  fellow-mortals  and  seek  to  bless  them. 
Thou  hast  learned  the  mystery  of  the 
higiiest.  Let  me  be  thine  interpreter 
All  that  thou  hast  learned  I  will  commu- 
nicate to  man. 

"  Rise  up,"  I  cried,  "  to  happiness  and 
to  labor.  Behold  !  I  give  thee  a  purpose 
in  life.  Blend  thy  soul  with  mine,  and  let 
me  utter  thy  thoughts  so  that  men  shall 
hear  and  understand.  For  I  know  that 
the  highest  truth  of  highest  Heaven 
means  nothing  more  than  love.  Gather 
up  all  thy  love,  let  it  flow  forth  to  thy 
fellow-men.  This  shall  be  at  once  the 
labor  and  the  consolation  of  thy  life." 

Now  all  this,  and  much  more — far 
more — was  expressed  in  the  tones  that 
flowed  from  my  Cremona.  It  was  all  in 
my  heart.  It  came  forth.  It  was  appre- 
hended by  her.  I  saw  it,  I  knew  it,  and 
I  exulted.  Her  eyes  dilated  more  widely 
—my  words  wore  not  unworthy  of  her 
hearing.  I  then  was  able  to  tell  some- 
thing which  could  rouse  her  from  her 
stupor.  Oh,  Music !  Divine  Music  I 
What  power  thou  hast  over  the  soul ! 

There  came  over  her  face  an  expression 
which  I  never  saw  before  ;  one  of  peace 
intffable — the  peace  that  passeth  under- 
standing. Ah,  me !  I  seemed  to  draw  her 
to  myself.  For  she  rose  and  walked 
toward  me.  And  a  great  calm  came 
over  my  own  uoul.  My  Cremona  spoke 
of  peace — soft,  sweet,  and  deep  ;  the  pro- 
found peace  that  dvvelleth  in  the  soul 
which  has  its  hope  in  fruition.  The  tone 
widened  into  sweet  modulation — sweet 
beyond  all  expression. 

She  was  so  close  that  she  almost 
touched  me.  Her  eyes  were  still  fixed  on 
mine.  Tears  were  there,  but  not  tears 
of  sorrow.  Her  face  was  so  close  to 
mine  that  my  strength  left  me.    My  arms 


dropped    downward.     The    music    was 
over. 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  mr..  I  caught 
it  in  both  of  mine,  and  wet  it  with  my 
tears. 

"Paolo,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  of  musical 
tone  ;  "  Paolo,  you  are  already  one  of  us. 
You  speak  our  language. 

"  You  have  taught  me  something  which 
flows  from  love — duty.  Yes,  we  will 
labor  together:  and  they  who  live  on 
high  will  learn  even  in  their  radiant  home 
to  envy  us  poor  mortals." 

I  said  not  a  word,  but  knelt,  and  hold- 
ing her  hand  still,  I  looked  up  at  her  in 
grateful  adoration. 

November  28. — For  the  last  three 
months  I  have  lived  in  heaven.  She  is 
changed.  Music  has  reconciled  her  to 
exile.  She  has  found  one  who  speaks, 
though  weakly,  the  language  of  that 
home. 

We  hold  together  through  this  divine 
medium  a  lofty  spiritual  intercourse.  I 
learn  from  her  of  that  starry  world  in 
which  for  a  brief  time  she  was  permitted 
to  dwell.  Her  seraphic  thoughts  have 
become  communicated  to  me.  I  have 
made  them  my  own,  and  all  my  spirit 
has  risen  to  a  higher  altitude. 

So  I  have  at  last  received  that  revela- 
tion for  which  I  longed,  and  the  divine 
thoughts  with  which  she  has  inspired  me 
I  will  make  known  to  the  world.  How  ? 
Description  is  inadequate,  but  it  is  enough 
to  say  that  I  have  decided  upon  an  Opera 
as  the  best  mode  of  making  known  these 
ideas. 

I  have  resorted  to  one  of  those 
classical  themes  which,  though  as  old 
as  civilization,  are  yet  ever  new,  be- 
cause they  are  truth. 

My  Opera  is  on  the  theme  of  Prome- 
theus. It  refers  to  Prometheus  De- 
livered.   My  idea  is  derived  from  her. 


S 
I 

I 
I 


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CORD    AND    CREKSK 


^  MM  Slit   ; 

CX  z , 


Li,  ■-; ; 
h  •««  >* '  ' 

ILl.  * 

'V,     ■'* 

C'^;  •; 

I'*'  If"         :l 

""**■.,       act 

ZI"^'  * 

^S  ;■ 


f , 


Prometheus  represents  Divine  Love — 
since  he  is  the  Clod  who  suffers  unen- 
durable agonies  through  his  love  for 
man.  Zeus  represents  the  old  austere 
god  of  the  sects  and  creeds  —  the 
gloomy  God  of  Vengeance — the  stern 
— the  inexorable— the  cruel. 

Love  endures  through  the  ages,  but 
at  last  triumphs.  The  chief  agent  in 
in  his  triumph  is  Athene.  She  represents 
Wisdom,  which,  by  its  life  and  increase, 
at  last  detlirones  the  God  of  Vengeance 
and  enthrones  the  God  of  Love. 

For  so  the  world  goes  on  ;  and  thus 
it  shall  be  that  Human  Understanding, 
which  I  have  personified  under  Athene, 
will  at  last  exalt  Divine  Love  over  all, 
and  cast  aside  its  olden  adoration  of 
Divine  Vengeance. 

I  am  trying  to  give  to  my  Opera  the 
severe  simplicity  of  the  classical  form, 
yet  at  the  same  time  to  pervade  it  all 
with  the  warm  atmosphere  of  love  in 
its  widest  sense.  It  opens  with  a 
chorus  of  seraphim.  Prometheus 
laments  ;  but  the  chief  part  is  that 
of  Athene.  On  that  I  have  exhausted 
myself. 

But  where  can  I  get  a  voice  that  can 
adequately  render  my  thoughts — our 
thoughts  ?  Where  is  Bice  ?  She 
alone  has  this  voice ;  she  alone  has 
the  power  of  catching  and  absorbing 
into  her  own  mind  the  ideas  which 
I  form ;  and,  with  it  all,  she  alone 
could  express  them.  I  would  wander 
over  the  earth  to  find  her.  But  perhaps 
she  is  in  a  luxurious  home,  where  her 
associates  would  not  listen  to  such 
a   proposal. 

Patience !  perhaps  Bice  may  at  last 
bring   her    marvellous  voice   to   my  aid. 

December  15. — Every  day  our  com- 
munion has  grown  more  exalted.  She 
breathes  upon  me  the  atmosphere  of  that 


radiant  world,  and  fills  my  soul  with 
rapture.  I  live  in  a  sublime  entl.usiasrn. 
We  hold  intercourse  by  means  of  music. 
We  stand  upon  a  higher  plane  than  that 
of  common  men.  She  has  raised  me 
there,  and  has  made  me  to  be  a  p;u-- 
taker  in  her  thoughts. 

Now  I  begin  to  understand  somethiii}; 
of  the  radiant  world  to  which  sh'^  was 
once  for  a  brief  time  borne.  1  know  hn 
lost  joys;  I  share  in  her  longings.  In 
me,  as  in  her,  there  is  a  deep,  unquen(  li- 
able thirst  aftc"  those  glories  that  are 
present  there.  All  here  seems  poor  and 
mean.  No  material  pleasure  can  for  a 
moment  allure. 

I  live  in  a  freniy.  My  soul  is  on  fire. 
Music  is  my  sole  thought  and  utterance. 
Colonel  Despard  thinks  that  1  am  mad. 
My  friends  here  pity  me.  I  smile  vvilhin 
myself  when  I  think  of  pity  being  givdi 
by  them  to  me.  Kindly  souls !  could 
they  but  have  one  faint  idea  of  tlic 
unspeakable  joys  to  which  I  have  at- 
tained ! 

My  Cremona  is  my  voice.  It  ex- 
presses all  things  for  me.  Ah,  sweet 
companion  of  my  soul's  flight !  my  Guide, 
my  Guardian  Angel,  my  Inspirer !  Ikk! 
ever  before  two  mortals  while  on  earth  a 
lot  like  ours?  Who  else  beside  us  in 
this  life  ever  learned  the  joys  of  pure 
spiritual  communion  ?  We  rise  on  high 
together.  Our  souls  are  borne  up  in 
company.  When  we  hold  commune  we 
cease  to  be  mortals. 

My  Opera  is  finished.  The  radiancy 
of  that  Divine  Love  which  has  inundated 
all  the  being  of  Edith  has  been  imparted 
to  me  in  some  measure  sufificient  to 
enable  me  to  breathe  forth  to  human 
ears  tones  which  have  been  caught  from 
immortal  voices.  She  has  given  me 
ideas.  I  have  made  them  audible  and 
intelligible  to  men. 


al    I 


JOURNAL    OF    PAOLO    LANCUL I  1  I 


ibl 


I  have  had  one  performance  of  my 
work,  or  rather  our  work,  for  it  is  all  hers, 
llcis  are  the  thoughts,  mine  is  only  the 
expression. 

I  sought  out  a  place  of  solitude  in 
which  I  might  perform  undisturbed  and 
withuut  interruption  the  theme  which  I 
have  tried  to  unfold. 

Opposite  my  house  is  a  wild,  rocky 
shore  covered  with  the  primeval  woods. 
Here  in  one  place  there  rises  a  barren 
rock,  perfectly  bare  of  verdure,  which  is 
called  Mount  Misery.  I  chose  this  place 
as  the  spot  where  I  might  give  my  re- 
hearsal. 

She  was  the  audience — I  was  the  or 
chestra — we  two  were  alone. 

Mount  Misery  is  one  barren  rock  with- 
in out  a  blade  of  grass  on  all  its  dark  iron- 
like surface.  Around  it  is  a  vast  accu- 
mulation of  granite  boulders  and  vast 
rocky  ledges.  The  trees  are  stunted,  the 
very  ferns  can  scarcely  find  a  place  to 


grow. 


It  was  night.  There  vas  not  a  cloud 
ill  the  sky.  The  moon  shone  with 
iiiarvel'ous  lustre. 

Down  in  front  of  us  lay  the  long  arm 
of  the  sea  that  ran  up  between  us  and 
the  city.  On  the  opposite  side  were 
woods,  and  beyond  them  rose  the  citadel, 
on  the  other  side  of  which -the  city  lay 
nestling  at  its  base  like  those  Rhenish 
towns  which  lie  at  the  foot  of  feudal 
castles. 

On  the  left  hand  all  was  a  wilderness  ; 

on  the  right,  close  by,  was  a  small  lake, 

I  which  seemed  like  a  sheet  of  silver  in  the 

I  moon's  rays.     Farther  on  lay  the  ocean, 

stretching  in  its  boundless  extent  away 

to  the  horizon.    There  lay  islands  and 

sand    banks    with  lighthouses.    There, 

under  the  moon,  lay  a  broad   path   of 

golden  light — molten  gold — unruffled — 

{undisturbed  in  that  dead  calm. 


My  Opera  begins  with  an  Alleluia 
Chorus.  I  have  borrowed  words  from 
the  Angel  Song  at  the  opening  of  "I-aust  " 
for  my  score,  liiit  the  music  has  an 
expression  of  its  own,  and  the  words  are 
feeble;  and  the  only  comfort  is  that 
these  words  will  be  lost  in  the  trimnph 
strain  of  the  tones  that  accompany  Hum 

She  was  with  me,  exulting  where  1 
was  exultant,  sad  where  I  was  sorrow- 
ful ;  still  with  her  air  of  guide  and 
teacher.  She  is  my  Lgcria,  She  is  iny 
Inspiring  Muse.  I  invoke  her  when  I 
sing. 

But  my  song  carr-ed  her  away.  Her 
own  thoughts  expressed  by  my  utterance 
were  returned  to  her,  and  she  yielded 
herself  up  altogether  to  their  power, 

Ah,  me!  there  is  one  language  common 
to  all  on  earth,  and  to  all  in  heaven,  and 
that  is  music. 

I  exulted  then  on  that  bare,  blasted 
rock.  I  triumi)hed.  blie  joined  me  in 
it  all.  We  exulted  together.  We  tri- 
umphed. We  mourned,  we  rejoiced,  we 
despaired,  we  hoped,  we  sung  alleluias  in 
our  hearts.  The  very  winds  were  still. 
The  very  moon  seemed  to  stay  her  course. 
All  nature  was  hushed. 

She  stood  before  me,  white,  slender, 
aerial,  like  a  spirit  from  on  high — as  pure, 
as  holy,  as  stainless.  Her  soul  and  mine 
were  blended.  We  moved  to  one  com- 
mon impulse.  We  obeyed  one  common 
motive. 

What  is  this  }  Is  it  love .''  Yes,  but 
not  as  men  call  love.  Ours  is  heavenly 
love,  ardent,  but  yet  spiritual;  intense, 
but  without  passion  ;  a  burning  love  like 
that  of  the  cherubim  ;  all-consuming,  all- 
engrossing,  and  enduring  forever  more. 

Have  I  ever  told  her  my  admiration  ? 
Yes;  but  not  in  words.  I  have  told  her 
so  in  music,  in  every  tone,  in  every  strain. 
She  knows  that  1  am  hers.    She  is  my 


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CORD    AND   CREESE 


divinity,  my  muse,  my  better  genius — 
the  nobler  half  of  myself. 

I  have  laid  all  my  spirit  at  her  feet,  as 
one  prostrates  himself  before  a  divinity. 
She  has  accepted  that  adoration  and  has 
been  pleased. 

We  are  blended.  We  are  one,  but  not 
after  an  earthly  fashion,  for  never  yet 
have  I  even  touched  her  hand  in  love. 
It  is  our  spirits,  our  real  selves — not  our 
merely  visible  selves — that  love ;  yet  that 
love  is  so  intense  that  I  would  die  for 
evermore  if  my  death  could  make  her  life 
more  sweet. 

She  has  heard  all  this  from  my  Cre- 
mona. 

Here,  as  we  stood  under  the  moon,  I 
thought  her  a  spirit  with  a  mortal  lover. 
I  recognized  the  full  meaning  of  the  sub- 
lime legend  of  Numa  and  Egeria.  The 
mortal  aspires  in  purity  of  heart,  and  the 
immortal  comes  down  and  assists  and  re- 
sponds to  his  aspirations. 


Our  souls  vibrated  in  unison  to  the 
expression  of  heavenly  thoughts.  We 
threw  ourselves  into  the  rapture  of  the 
hour.  We  trembled,  we  thrilled,  till  at 
last  frail  mortal  nature  could  scarcely 
endure  the  intensity  of  that  perfect  joy. 

So  we  came  to  the  end.  The  end  is  a 
chorus  of  angels.  They  sing  the  divinest 
of  songs  that  is  written  in  Holy  Revela- 
tion. All  the  glory  of  that  song  reaches 
its  climax  in  the  last  strain  : 

"And  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  their  eyes ! " 

We  wept  together.  But  we  dried  our 
tears  and  went  home,  musing  on  that 
"  tearless  eternity  "  which  lies  before  us. 

Morning  is  dawning  as  I  write,  and  all 
the  feeling  of  my  soul  can  be  expressed 
in  one  word,  the  sublimest  of  all  words, 
which  is  intelligible  to  many  of  different 
languages  and  different  races.  I  will  end 
with  this: 

"Alleluia!" 


CHAPTER  XXVHI 


THIS  MUST  END 


The  note  which  accompanied  Lan- 
ghetti's  journal  was  as  follows : 

"  Halifax,  December  18,  1848. 

"  Teresuola  Mia  Dolcissima  :  I 
send  you  my  journal,  sorella  carissima, 
I  have  been  silent  for  a  long  time.  For- 
give me.  I  have  been  sad  and  in  afflic- 
tion. But  affliction  has  turned  to  joy, 
and  I  have  learned  things  unknown  be- 
fore. 

"  Teresina  mia,  I  am  coming  back  to 
England  immediately.    You  may  expect 


to  see  me  at  any  time  during  the  next 
three  months.  She  will  be  with  me  ;  but 
so  sensitive  is  she — so  strange  would  she 
be  to  you — that  I  do  not  know  whether 
it  will  be  well  for  you  to  see  her  or  not, 
I  dare  not  let  her  be  exposed  to  the 
gaze  of  anyone  unknown  to  her.  Yet, 
sweetest  sorelltna,  perhaps  I  may  be  able 
to  tell  her  that  I  have  a  dearest  sister, 
whose  heart  is  love,  whose  nature  is 
noble,  and  who  could  treat  her  with  1 
tenderest  care. 
"  I  intend  to  offer  my  Opera  to  the  | 


THIS   MUST    END 


"83 


nison  to  the 
loughts.    We 
rapture  of  the 
:hrilled,  till  at 
:oul(l  scarcely 
at  perfect  joy. 
The  end  is  a 
ng  the  divinest 
1  Holy  Revela- 
t  song  reaches 
\ : 

rs  from  their  eyes!" 

at  we  dried  our 
lusing  on  that 
,  lies  before  us. 
,  1  write,  and  all 
in  be  expressed 
ist  of  all  words, 
nany  of  different 
aces.    I  will  end 


during  the  next 
be  with  me ;  but 
itrange  would  she 
lot  know  whether 
to  see  her  or  not, 
exposed  to  the 
»wn  to  her.    Yet, 
laps  I  may  be  able 
e  a  dearest  sister, 
whose    nature  is 
:1    treat    her  witti 


world  at  London.  I  will  be  my  own 
impresario.  Yet  I  want  one  thing, 
and  that  is.  a  Voice.  Oh,  for  a  Voice 
like  that  of  Bice!  But  it  is  ^dle  to 
wish  for  her. 

"Never  have  I  heard  any  voice  like 
hers,  my  Teresina.  God  grant  that 
I  may  find  her! 

"  Expect  soon  and  suddenly  to  see 
your  most  loving  brother, 

"  Paolo." 

Mrs.  Thornton  showed  this  note  to 
Despard  the  next  time  they  met.  He 
had  read  the  journal  in  the  mean- 
time. 

"  So  he  is  coming  back  ?  "  said  he. 

"Yes." 

"  And  with  this  marvellous  girl  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  fhe  seems  to  me  like  a  spirit." 

"And  to  me." 

"  Paolo's  own  nature  is  so  lofty  and 
so  spiritual  that  one  like  her  is  intelli- 
gible to  him.  Happy  is  it  for  her  that 
he  found  her." 

"  Paolo  is  more  spiritual  than  human. 
He  has  no  materialism.  He  is  spiritual. 
I  am  of  the  earth,  earthy;  but  my 
brother  is  a  spirit  imprisoned,  who 
chafes  his  bonds  and  longs  to  be  free. 
And  think  what  Paolo  has  done  for 
her  in  his  sublime  devotion!" 

"I  know  others  who  would  do  as 
much,"  said  Despard,  in  a  voice  that 
seemed  full  of  tears;  "I  know  others 
who,  like  him,  would  go  to  the  grave 
to  rescue  the  one  they  loved,  and  make 
all  life  one  long  devotion.  I  know 
others,"  he  continued,  "who  would 
gladly  die,  if  by  dying  they  could  gain 
what  he  has  won — the  possession  of 
the  one  they  love.  Ah,  me!  Paolo  is 
happy  and  blessed  beyond  all  men. 
Between  him  and  her  there  is  no  in- 

»3 


superable  barrier,  no  gulf  as  deep  as 
death." 

Despard  spoke  impetuously,  but  sud- 
denly checked  himself. 

"  I  received,"  said  he,  "  by  the  last 
mail-  a  letter  from  my  uncle  in  Halifax. 
He  is  ordered  off  to  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope.  I  wrote  him  a  very  long  time 
ago,  as  I  told  you,  asking  him  to  tell  me 
without  reserve  all  that  he  knew  about 
my  father's  death.  I  told  him  plainly 
that  there  w^s  a  mystery  about  it  which 
I  was  determined  to  solve.  I  reproached 
him  for  keeping  it  secret  from  me,  and 
reminded  him  that  I  was  now  a  mature 
man,  and  that  he  had  no  right  nor  any 
reason  to  maintain  any  further  secrecy. 
I  insisted  on  knowing  all,  no  matter 
what  it  might  be. 

"  I  received  his  letter  by  the  last  mail. 
Here  it  is;"  and  he  handed  it  to  her. 
"  Read  it  when  you  get  home.  I  have 
written  a  few  words  to  you,  little  play- 
mate, also.  He  has  told  me  all.  Did 
you  know  this  before  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Lama,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton 
with  a  look  of  sorrowful  sympathy. 

"  You  knew  all  my  father's  fate  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Lama." 

"  And  you  kept  it  secret  ?  " 

"Yes,  Lama.  How  could  I  bear  to 
tell  you  and  give  you  pain  ? " 

Her  voice  trembled  as  she  spoke. 
Despard  looked  at  her  with  an  inde- 
scribable expression. 

"  One  thought,"  said  he  slowly,  "  and 
one  feeling  engrosses  ail  my  nature,  and 
even  this  news  that  I  have  heard  cannot 
drive  it  away.  Even  the  thought  of  my 
father's  fate,  so  dark  and  so  mysterious, 
cannot  weaken  the  thoughts  that  have 
all  my  life  been  supreme.  Do  you  know, 
little  playmate,  what  those  thoughts 
are  ?  " 

She  was  silent.    Despard's  hand  wan- 


; 


III 


^  miim  •»■-» 


184 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


— «'«|||! 

ILt 

c: ::  ■ 

•v.     ■"" 

If--.' 

•-"-  : 


ii:- 


!*  'ii, 


i 


dered  over  the  keys.  They  always  spoke 
in  low  tones,  which  were  almost  whispers; 
tones  which  were  inaudible  except  to  each 
other.  And  Mrs.  Thornton  had  to  bow 
her  head  close  to  his  to  hear  what  he  said. 
"  I  must  go,"  said  Despard,  after  a 
pause,  "  and  visit  Brandon  again.  I  do 
not  know  what  I  can  do,  but  my  father's 
death  requires  further  examination.  This 
man  Potts  is  intermingled  with  it.  My 
uncle  gives  dark  hints.  I  must  make  an 
examination." 


"And  you  are  going  away  again?" 
said  Mrs.  Thornton  sadly. 

Despard  sighed. 

"  Would  it  not  be  better,"  said  he,  as 
he  took  her  hand  in  his — "  would  it  not 
be  better  for  you,  little  playmate,  if  I 
went  away  from  you  forever  ?  " 

She  gave  him  one  long  look  of  sad  re- 
proach.    Then  tears  filled  her  eyes. 

"This  cannot  go  on  forever,"  she 
murmured.  "  It  must  come  to  that  at 
last ! " 


CHAPTER    XXIX 

BEATRICE'S    JOURNAL 


October  30,  1848. — My  recovery  has 
been  slow,  and  I  am  still  far  from  well. 
I  stay  in  my  room  almost  altogether. 
Why  should  I  do  otherwise  ?  Day  suc- 
ceeds day,  and  each  day  is  a  blank. 

My  window  looks  on  the  sea,  and  I 
can  sit  there  and  feed  my  heart  on  the 
memories  which  that  sea  calls  up.  It  is 
company  for  me  in  my  solitude.  It  is 
music,  though  I  cannot  hear  its  voice. 
Oh,  how  I  should  rejoice  if  I  could  get 
down  by  its  margin  and  touch  its  waters  ! 
Oh,  how  I  should  rejoice  if  those  waters 
would  flow  over  me  forever ! 

November  15. — Why  I  should  write 
anything  now  I  do  not  know.  This 
uneventful  life  offers  nothing  to  record. 
Mrs.  Compton  is  as  timid,  as  gentle,  and 
as  affectionate  as  ever.  Philips,  poor, 
timorous,  kindly  soul,  sends  me  flowers 
by  her.  Poor  wretch,  how  did  he  ever 
get  here  ?    How  did  Mrs.  Compton  ? 

December  28. — In  spite  of  my  quiet 
habits  and  constant  seclusion  I  feel  that  I 


am  under  some  surveillance,  not  from 
Mrs.  Compton,  but  from  others.  I  have 
been  out  twice  during  the  last  fortnight 
and  perceived  this  plainly.  Men  in  the 
walks  who  were  at  work  quietly  followed 
me  with  their  eyes.  I  see  that  I  am 
watched.  I  did  not  know  that  I  was  of 
sufficient  importance. 

Yesterday  a  strange  incident  occurred. 
Mrs.  Compton  was  with  me,  and  by  some 
means  or  other  my  thoughts  turned  to 
one  about  whom  I  have  often  tried  to 
form  conjectures — my  mother.  How 
could  she  ever  have  married  a  man  like 
my  'ather  ?  What  could  she  have  been 
like  ?  Suddenly  I  turned  to  Mrs.  Comp- 
ton, an)  said  : 
"  Did  you  ever  see  my  mother  ?  " 
What  there  could  have  been  in  my 
question  I  cannot  tell,  but  she  treml^led 
and  looked  at  me  with  greater  fear  in  her 
face  than  I  had  ever  seen  there  before, 
This  time  she  seemed  to  be  afraid  of  me, 
I  .-nyself  felt  a  cold  chill  run  through  my 


BEATRICE  S    JOURNAL 


185 


frame.  That  awful  thought  which  I 
had  once  before  known  flashed  across 
my  mind. 

"  Oh  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Compton  suddenly, 
"  oh,  don't  look  at  me  so  ;  don't  look  at 
nie  so  ! " 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  said  I 
slowly.  She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands 
and  began  to  weep.  I  tried  to  soothe 
her,  and  with  some  success,  for  after  a 
time  she  regained  her  composure. 
Nothing  more  was  said.  But  since  then 
one  thought,  with  a  long  series  of  attend- 
ant thoughts  has  weighed  down  my 
mind.  Wno  am  I?  What  am  I? 
What  am  I  doing  here?  What  do 
these  people  want  with  me?  Why  do 
they  gttard  me  ? 

I  can  write  no  more. 

January  14,  1849. — The  days  drag  on. 
Nothing  new  has  happened.  I  am  tor- 
mented by  strange  thoughts.  I  see  this 
plainly,  that  there  are  times  when  I 
inspire  fear  in  this  house.    Why  is  this  ? 

Since  that  day,  many,  many  months 
ago,  when  they  all  looked  at  me  in  horror, 
I  have  seen  none  of  them.  Now  Mrs. 
Compton  has  exhibited  the  same  fear. 
There  is  a  restraint  over  her.  Yes,  she 
too  fears  me.  Yet  she  is  kind ;  and  poor 
Philips  never  forgets  to  send  me  flowers. 

I  could  smile  at  the  idea  of  ar.yone 
fearing  me,  if  it  were  not  for  the  terrible 
thoughts  that  arise  within  my  mind. 

February  12. — Of  late  all  my  thoughts 
have  changed,  and  I  have  been  inspired 
with  an  uncontrollable  desire  to  escape. 
I  live  here  in  luxury,  but  the  meanest 
house  outside  would  be  far  preferable. 
Every  hour  here  is  a  sorrow,  every  day  a 
misery.    Oh,  me !  if  I  could  but  escape  ! 

Once  in  that  outer  world  I  care  not 
what  might  happen.  I  would  be  willing 
to  do  menial  labor  to  earn  my  bread. 
Yet  it   need  not  come   to  that.    The 


lessons  which  Paolo  taught  me  have  been 
useful  in  more  ways  than  one.  I  know 
that  I  at  least  need  not  be  dependent. 

He  used  to  say  to  me  that  if  I  chose  to 
go  on  the  stage  and  sing,  I  could  do 
something  better  than  gain  a  living  or 
make  a  fortune.  He  said  I  could  inter- 
pret the  ideas  of  the  Great  Masters,  and 
make  myself  a  blessing  to  the  world. 

Why  need  I  stay  here  when  I  have  a 
voice  v.'hich  he  used  to  deign  to  praise  ? 
He  did  not  praise  it  because  he  loved  me ; 
but  I  think  he  loved  me  because  he  loved 
my  voice.  He  loves  my  voice  better  than 
me.  And  that  other  one  !  Ah,  me — 
will  he  ever  hear  my  voice  again  ?  Did 
he  know  how  sweet  his  voice  was  to  me  ? 
Oh,  me  !  its  tones  ring  i  .  my  ears  and  in 
my  heart  night  and  day. 

March  5. — My  resolution  is  formed. 
This  may  be  my  last  entry.  I  pray  to 
God  that  it  may  be.  I  will  trust  in  him 
and  fly.  At  night  they  cannot  be  watch- 
ing me.  There  is  a  door  at  the  north 
end,  the  key  of  which  is  always  in  it.  I 
can  steal  out  by  that  direction  and  gain 
my  liberty. 

Oh,  Thou  who  hearest  prayer,  grant 
deliverance  to  the  captive  ! 

Farewell  now,  my  journal ;  I  hope 
never  to  see  you  again !  Yet  I  will 
secrete  you  in  this  chamber,  for  if  I  am 
compelled  to  return  I  may  be  glad  to 
seek  you  again. 

March  6. — Not  yet  I    Not  yet ! 

Alas !  and  since  yesterday  what  things 
have  happened !  Last  night  I  was  to 
make  my  attempt.  They  dined  at  eight, 
and  I  waited  for  them  to  retire.  I  waited 
long.    They  were  longer  than  usual. 

At  about  ten  o'clock  Mrs.  Compton 
came  into  my  room,  with  as  frightened  a 
face  as  usual.    "  They  want  you,"  said  she. 

I  knew  whom  she  meant.  "  Must  I 
go  ?  "  said  I, 


I  !  i 


1 86 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


>..  I 

•"I'M)     Ik 

mi 

L  t ';  ■'! 


-^^   ID   :, 

.^ai    >•   '; 


II: 


"  Alas,  dear  child,  what  can  you  do  ? 
Trust  in  God.    He  can  save  you." 

"  He  alone  can  save  nie,"  said  I,  "  if 
he  will.  It  has  come  to  this  that  I  have 
none  but  him  in  whom  I  can  trust." 

She  began  to  weep.  I  said  no  more, 
but  obeyed  the  command  and  went  down. 

Since  I  was  last  there  months  had 
passed — months  of  suffering  and  anguish 
in  body  and  mind.  The  remembrance  of 
my  last  visit  there  came  over  me  as  I 
entered.  Yet  I  did  not  tremble  or  falter. 
I  crossed  the  threshold  and  entered  the 
room,  and  stood  before  them  in  silence. 

I  saw  the  three  men  who  had  been 
there  before.  He  and  his  son,  and  the 
man  Clark.  They  had  all  been  drinking. 
Their  voices  were  loud  and  their  laughter 
boisterous  as  I  approached.  When  I 
entered  they  became  quiet,  and  all  three 
stared  at  me.    At  last  he  said  to  his  son : 

"She  don't  look  any  fatter,  does  she, 
Johnnie?  " 

"  She  gets  enough  to  eat,  anyhow," 
answered  John. 

"She's  one  of  them  kind,"  said  the 
man  Clark,  "  that  don't  fatten  up.  But 
then,  Johnnie,  you  needn't  talk — you 
haven't  much  fat  yourself,  lad." 

"  Hard  work,"  said  John,  whereupon 
the  others,  thinking  it  an  excellent  joke, 
burst  into  hoarse  laughter.  This  put 
them  into  great  good  humor  v.rith  them- 
selves, and  they  began  to  turn  their 
attention  to  me  again.  Not  a  word 
was  said  for  some  time. 

"  Can  you  dance  ?  "  said  he  at  last, 
speaking  to   m''   abruptly. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered. 

"Ah  1  I  thought  so.  I  paid  enough 
for  your  education,  anyhow.  It  would 
be  hard  if  you  hadn't  learned  anything 
else  except  squalling  and  banging  on  the 
piano." 

I  said  nothing. 


"  Why  do  you  stare  so,  d n  you  ? " 

he  cried,  loc  king  savagely  at  me. 

I  looked  i't  the  floor. 

"  Come  now,"  said  he.  "  I  sent  for  you 
to  see  if  you  can  dance.    Dance  !  " 

I  stood  still.  "  Dance !  "  he  repeated 
with  an  oath.    "  Do  you  hear  ?  " 

"  I  cannot,"  said  I. 

"  Perhaps  you  want  a  partner,"  con- 
tinued he,  with  a  sneer.  "  Here,  Johnnie, 
go  and  help  her." 

"  I'd  rather  not,"  said  John. 

"  Clark,  you  try  it — you  were  always 
gay,"  and  he  gave  a  hoarse  laugh. 

"Yes,  Clark,"  cried  John.  "  Now's 
your  chance." 

Clark  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then 
came  toward  me.  I  stood  with  my  arms 
folded,  and  looked  at  him  fixedly.  I  was 
not  afraid.  For  I  thought  in  that  hour 
of  who  these  men  were,  and  what  they 
were.  My  life  was  in  their  hands,  but  I 
held  life  cheap.  I  rose  above  the  fear 
of  the  moment,  and  felt  myself  their 
superior. 

Clark  came  up  to  me  and  stopped.  I 
did  not  move. 

"  Curse  her ! "  said  he.  "  I'd  as  soon 
dance  with  a  ghost.  She  looks  like  one, 
anyhow." 

He  laughed  boisterously. 

"He's  afraid.  He's  getting  supersti- 
tious !  "  he  cried.  "  What  do  you  think 
of  that,  Johnnie  ?  " 

"  Well,"  drawled  John,  "  it's  the  first 
time  I  ever  heard  of  Clark  being  afraid  of 
anything." 

These  words  seemed  to  sting  Clark  to 
the  quick. 

"  Will  you  dance  ?  "  said  he  in  a  hoarse 
voice. 

I  made  no  answer. 

"  Curse  her !  make  her  dance ! "  he 
shouted,  starting  up  from  his  chair, 
"Don't  let  her  bully  you,  you  fool!" 


SMITHERS   &    CO. 


187 


I nyou?" 

t  me. 

'  I  sent  for  you 
>ance ! " 
"  he  repeated 
hear  ?  " 

partner,"  con- 
Here,  Johnnie, 

)hn. 

a  were  always 
oarse  laugh, 
ohn.     "  Now's 

oment,  and  then 
:1  with  my  arms 

fixedly.     I  was 
ht  in  that  hour 

and  what  they 
leir  hands,  but  I 

above  the  fear 
;lt  myself   their 

and  stopped.    I 

1.    "  I'd  as  soon 
e  looks  like  one, 

,ly. 

etting  supersti- 
lat  do  you  think 

n,  "  it's  the  first 
being  afraid  of 

to  sting  Clark  to 

iid  he  in  a  hoarse 


her  dance!"  fn 
from  his  chair. 
you,  you  fool!" 


Clark  stepped  toward  me  and  laid  one 
heavy  hand  on  mine,  while  he  attempted 
to  pass  the  other  round  my  waist.  At 
the  horror  of  his  polluting  touch  all  my 
nature  seemed  transformed.  I  started 
back.  There  came  something  like  a 
frenzy  over  me.  I  neither  knew  nor 
cared  what  I  said. 

Yet  I  spoke  slowly,  and  it  was  not  like 
passion.  All  that  I  had  read  in  that 
manuscript  was  in  my  heart,  the  very 
spirit  of  the  murdered  Despard  seemed 
to  inspire  me. 

"Touch  me  not,"  I  said.  "Trouble 
ine  not.  I  am  near  enough  to  death 
already.  And  you,"  I  cried,  stretching 
out  my  hand  to  /urn,  "  ThuG  !  never 
again  will  I  obey  one  command  of  yours. 
Kill  me  if  you  choose,  and  send  me  after 
Colonel  Despard  " 

These  words  seemed  to  blast  and  wither 
them.  Clark  shrank  back,  /fe  gave  a 
groan,  and  clutched  the  arm  of  his  chair. 
John  looked  in  fear  from  one  to  the  other, 
and  stammered  with  an  oath  : 

"  She  knows  all !  Mrs.  Compton  told 
i.er." 


"  Mrs.  Compton  never  knew  it,  about 
the  Thug,"  said  he,  and  then  looked  up 
fearfully  at  me.  They  all  looked  once 
more.  Again  that  fear  which  I  had  seen 
in '  them  before  was  shown  upon  their 
faces. 

I  looked  upon  these  wretches  as  though 
I  had  surveyed  them  from  some  lofty 
height.  That  one  of  them  was  my 
father  was  forgotten.  I  seemed  to 
utter  words  which  were  inspired  within 
me. 

"  Colonel  Despard  has  spoken  to  me 
from  the  dead,  and  told  me  all,"  said  I. 
"  I  am  appointed  to  avenge  him." 

I  turned  and  went  out  of  the  room. 
As  I  left  I  heard  John's  voice  : 

"  If  she's  the  devil  himself,  as  I  believe 
she  is,"  he  cried,  "  sAe's  got  to  be  took 
down  /  " 

I  reached  my  room.  I  lay  awake  all 
night  long.  A  fever  seemed  raging  in  all 
my  veins.  Now  with  a  throbbing  head 
and  trembling  hands  I  write  this.  Will 
these  be  my  last  words  ?  God  grant  it, 
and  give  me  safe  deliverance.  Amen ! 
amen! 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


SMITHERS  &  CO. 


The  Brandon  Bank,  John  Potts,  Presi- 
dent, had  one  day  risen  suddenly  before 
the  eyes  of  the  astonished  county  and 
filled  all  men  with  curious  speculations. 

John  Potts  had  been  detestable,  but 
now,  as  a  Bank  President,  he  began  to 
be  respectable,  to  say  the  least.  Wealth 
has  a  charm  about  it  v/hich  fascinates  all 
men,  even  those  of  the  oldest  families, 


and  now  that  this  parvenu  showed  that 
he  could  easily  employ  his  superfluous 
cash  in  a  banking  company,  people  began 
to  look  upon  his  name  as  still  undoubtedly 
vulgar,  yet  as  undoubtedly  possessing  the 
ring  of  gold. 

His  first  effort  to  take  the  county  by 
storm,  by  an  ordinary  invitation  to  Bran- 
don  Hall,  had  been  sneered  at  every- 


■ 


\  ; 


I  i 


' 


1  I 


i88 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


ex 


cac:  '^ 

—■ -  ffc 
ILt 


or 

cc 

ul 

1 

'Ik 

:r:s 

"—«». 

w 

*•— !a 

'■• 

•<« 

m 

*•"•• 

'm 

','"■* 

lib, 

ilii!, 


where.  But  this  bank  was  a  different 
thing.  Many  began  to  think  that  perhaps 
Potts  had  been  an  ill-used  and  slandered 
man.  He  had  been  Brandon's  agent, 
but  who  could  prove  anything  against 
him  after  all  ? 

There  were  very  many  who  soon  felt 
the  need  of  the  peculiar  help  which  a 
b'lnk  can  give  if  it  only  chooses.  Those 
who  went  there  found  Potts  marvellously 
accommodating.  He  did  not  seem  so 
grasping  or  so  suspicious  as  other  bankers. 
They  got  what  they  wanted,  laughed  at 
his  pleasant  jokes,  and  assured  every- 
body that  he  was  a  much-belied  man. 

Surely  it  was  by  some  special  inspira- 
tion that  Potts  hit  upon  this  idea  of  a 
bank  ;  if  he  wished  to  make  people  look 
kindly  upon  him,  to  "be  to  his  faults  a 
little  blind,  and  to  his  virtues  very  kind," 
he  could  not  have  conceived  any  better 
or  shorter  way  toward  the  accomplish- 
ment of  so  desirable  a  result. 

So  lenient  were  these  people  that  they 
looked  upon  all  those  who  took  part  in 
the  bank  with  equal  indulgence.  The 
younger  Potts  was  considered  as  a  very 
clever  man,  with  a  dry,  caustic  humor, 
but  thoroughly  good-hearted.  Clark, 
one  of  the  directors,  was  regarded  as 
bluff,  and  shrewd,  and  cautious,  but  full 
of  the  milk  of  human  kindness;  and 
Philips,  the  cashier,  was  univerhclly  liked 
on  account  of  his  gentle,  obsequious 
manner. 

So  wide-spread  and  so  active  were  the 
operations  of  this  bank  that  people  stood 
astonished  and  had  nothing  to  say.  The 
amount  of  their  accommodations  was 
enormous.  Those  who  at  first  considered 
it  a  mushroom  concern  soon  discovered 
their  mistake ;  for  the  Brandon  Bank  had 
connections  in  London  which  seemed  to 
give  the  command  of  unlimited  means, 
and  any  sum  whatever  that  might  be 


needed  was  at  once  advanced  where  the 
security  was  at  all  reliable.  Nor  was  the 
bank  particular  about  security.  Jolin 
Potts  professed  to  trust  much  to  people  s 
faces  and  to  *heir  character,  and  there 
were  times  when  he  would  take  the  secu- 
rity without  looking  at  it,  or  even  decline 
it  and  be  satisfied  with  the  name. 

In  less  than  a  year  the  bank  had  suc- 
ceeded in  gaining  the  fullest  confidence 
even  of  those  who  had  at  first  been  most 
skeptical,  and  John  Potts  had  grown  to 
be  considered  without  doubt  one  of  the 
most  considerable  men  in  the  county. 

One  day  in  March  John  Potts  was  sit- 
ting in  the  parlor  of  the  bank  when  a 
gentleman  walked  in  who  seemed  to  be 
about  sixty  years  of  age.  He  had  a  slight 
stoop,  an*'  carried  a  gold-headed  cane. 
He  was  dressed  in  black,  had  gray  hair, 
and  a  very  heavy  gray  beard  and  mus- 
tache. 

"  Have  I  the  honor  of  addressing  Mr, 
Potts  ?  "  said  the  stranger  in  a  peculiarly 
high,  shrill  voice. 

"  I'm  Mr.  Potts,"  said  the  other. 

The  stranger  thereupon  drew  a  letter 

!  from  his  pocket-book  and  handed  it  to 

Potts.    The  letter  was  a  short  one,  and 

the  moment  Potts  had  read  it  he  sprang 

up  and  held  out  his  hand  eagerly. 

"Mr.  Smithers,  sir! — you're  welcome, 
sir,  I'm  sure,  sir !  Proud  and  happy, 
sir,  to  see  you,  I'm  sure!"  said  Potts 
with  great  volubility. 

Mr.  Smithers,  however,  did  not  seem  to 
see  his  hand,  but  seated  himself  leisurely 
on  a  chair,  and  looked  for  a  moment  at 
the  opposite  wall  like  one  in  thought. 

He  was  a  singular  looking  old  man. 
His  skin  was  fresh ;  there  was  a  grand, 
stern  air  upon  his  brow  when  it  was  in 
repose.  The  lower  part  of  his  face  was 
hidden  by  his  beard,  and  its  expression 
was  therefore  lost.    His  eyes,  however, 


SMITHRRS   &    CO. 


189 


were  sin.Tularly  large  and  luminous,  al- 
thou£ "  wore  spectacles  and  generally 
looked  ...  the  floor. 

"  I  have  but  recently  returned  from  a 
tour,"  said  he  in  the  same  voice ;  "  and 
my  junior  partner  has  managed  all  the 
business  in  my  absence,  which  has  lasted 
more  than  a  year.  I  had  not  the  honor 
of  being  acquainted  with  your  banking- 
house  when  I  left,  and  as  I  had  business 

up  this  way  I  thought  I  would  call  on 

It 
you. 

"  Proud,  sir,  and  most  happy  to  wel- 
come you  to  our  modest  parlor,"  said 
Potts  obsequiously.  "  This  is  a  pleasure 
—indeed  I  may  say,  sir,  a  privilege— 
which  I  have  long  wished  to  have.  In 
fact,  I  have  never  seen  your  junior  part- 
ner, sir,  any  more  than  yourself.  I  have 
only  seen  your  sgents,  sir,  and  have 
gone  on  and  done  my  large  business  with 
you  by  writing." 

Mr.  Smithers  bowed. 

"Quite  so,"  said  he.  "We  have  so 
many  connections  in  all  parts  of  the 
world  that  it  is  impossible  to  have  the 
pleasure  of  a  personal  acquaintance  with 
them  all.  There  are  some  with  whom 
we  have  much  larger  transactions  than 
yourself  whom  I  have  never  seen." 

"  Indeed,  sir  !  "  exclaimed  Potts  with 
great  surprise.  "  Then  you  must  do  a 
larger  business  than  I  thought." 

"  We  do  a  large  business,"  said  Mr. 
Smithers  thoughtfully. 

"  And  all  over  the  world,  you  said. 
Then  you  must  be  worth  millions." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  one  cannot  do  a  busi- 
ness like  ours,  that  commands  money, 
without  a  large  capital." 

"  Are  there  many  who  do  a  larger 
business  '.han  I  do  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  In  New  York  the  house 
of  Peyton  Brothers  do  a  business  of  ten 
times  the    amount — yes,  twenty  times. 


In  San  Francisco  a  new  house,  just 
started  since  the  gold  discoveries,  has 
done  a  business  with  us  almost  as  large. 
In  Bombay  Messrs.  Nickerson,  Bolton  & 
Co.  are  our  correspondents  ;  in  Calcutui 
Messrs.  Hostermann,  Jennings  &  Black  ; 
in  Kong  Kong  Messrs.  Naylor  &  Tib- 
betts ;  in  Sydney  Messrs.  Sandford  & 
Perley.  Besides  these,  we  have  corre- 
spondents through  Europe  and  in  all  parts 
of  England  who  do  a  much  larger  busi- 
ness tuan  yours.  But  I  thought  you 
were  aware  of  this,"  said  Mr.  Smithers, 
looking  with  a  swift  glance  at  Pot^s. 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  said  Potts 
hastily ;  "  I  knew  your  business  was 
enormous,  but  I  thought  our  dealings 
with  you  were  considerable." 

"  Oh,  you  are  doing  a  snug  business," 
said  Smithers  in  a  patronizing  tone.  "  It 
is  our  custom  whenever  we  have  corre- 
spondents who  are  sound  men  to  encour- 
age them  to  the  utmost.  This  is  the 
reason  why  you  have  always  found  us 
liberal  and  prompt." 

"  You  have  done  great  service,  sir," 
said  Potts.  "  In  fact,  you  have  made 
the  Brandon  Bank  what  it  is  to-day." 

"  Well,"  said  Smithers,  "  we  have 
agents  everywhere ;  we  heard  that  this 
bank  was  talked  about,  and  knowing  the 
concern  to  be  in  sure  hands,  we  took  it  up. 
My  Junior  has  made  arrangements  with 
you  which  he  says  have  been  satisfactory." 

"  Very  much  so  to  me,"  replied  Potts. 
"  You  have  always  found  the  money." 

"  And  you,  I  suppose,  have  furnished 
the  securities." 

"  Yes,  and  a  precious  good  lot  of  them 
you  are  now  holding." 

"  I  dare  say,"  said  Smithers ;  "  for  my 
part  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  books. 
I  merely  attend  to  the  general  affairs,  and 
trust  to  my  Junior  for  particulars." 

"  And  you  don't  know  the  exact  state 


II 


f  I 


190 


CORD    AND   CPif'tlSE 


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of  our  business  ?  "  said  Potts  in  a  tone 
of  disappointment. 

"No.  How  should  I  ?  The  only  ones 
with  which  I  am  familiar  are  our  Ameri- 
can, European,  and  Eastern  agencies. 
Our  English  correspondents  are  managed 
by  my  Junior." 

"  You  must  be  one  of  the  largest  houses 
in  London,"  said  Potts  in  a  tone  of  deep 
admiration. 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  Strange  I  never  heard  of  you  till  two 
years  ago  or  so." 

"  Very  likely." 

"  There  was  a  friend  of  mine  who  was 
telling  me  something  about  some  Sydney 
merchants  who  were  sending  consign- 
ments of  wool  to  you :  Compton  &  Br.in- 
don.     Do  you  know  them  ?  " 

•'  I  have  heard  my  Junior  speak  of 
them." 

"  You  were  in  Sydney,  were  you  not  ?  " 

"Yes,  on  my  last  tour  I  touched 
there." 

"  Do  you  know  Compton  &  Brandon  ?  " 

"  I  looked  in  to  see  them.  I  think 
Brandon  is  dead,  isn't  he?  Drowned  at 
sea — or  something  of  that  sort  ? "  said 
Smithers  indifferently. 

"  Yes,"  said  Potts. 

"Are  you  familiar  with  the  banking 
business?  "  asked  Smithers  suddenly. 

"  Well,  no,  not  very.  I  haven't  had 
much  experience;  but  I'm  growing  into  it." 

"  Ah  !  I  suppose  your  directors  are 
good  business  men  ?  " 

"  Somewhat ;  but  the  fact  is  I  trust  a 
good  deal  to  my  cashier." 

"  Who  is  he  ?  " 

"  His  name  is  Philips,  a  very  clever 
man  ;  a  lirst-rate  accountant." 

"  That's  right.  Very  much  indeed  de- 
pends on  the  cashier." 

"  He  is  a  most  useful  and  reliable 
man." 


"  \our  business  appears  to  be  growing, 
from  what  I  have  heard." 

"  Very  fast  indeed,  sir.  Why,  sir,  in 
another  year  I  expect  to  control  this 
whole  county  financially.  There  is  no 
reason  why  I  shouldn't.  Every  one  of 
my  moves  is  successful." 

"  That  is  right.  The  true  mode  of 
success  in  a  business  like  yours  is  bold- 
ness. That  is  the  secret  of  my  success. 
Perhaps  you  are  not  aware,"  continued 
Mr.  Smithers  in  a  conf  lential  tone, 
••  that  I  began  with  very  little.  A  few 
thousands  of  pounds  formed  my  capit.il. 
But  my  motto  was  boldness,  and  now  I  am 
worth  I  will  not  say  how  many  millions. 
If  you  want  to  make  money  fast  you  must 
be  bold." 

"  Did  you  make  your  money  by  bank- 
ing ?  "  dsked  Potts  eagerly. 

"  No.  Much  of  it  was  made  in  that 
way,  but  I  have  eml  nrked  in  all  kinds  of 
enterprises  :  foreign  loans,  railway  scrip, 
and  ventures  in  stock  of  all  sorts.  I  have 
lost  millions,  but  I  have  made  ten  times 
more  than  ever  I  lost.  If  you  want  to 
make  money,  you  must  go  on  the  same 
plan." 

"Well,  I'm  sure,"  said  Potts,  "I'm 
bold  enough.  I'm  enlarging  my  business 
every  day  in  all  directions." 

"  That's  right." 

"  I  control  the  county  now,  and  hope 
in  another  year  to  do  so  in  a  different 
way." 

"  How  so  ?  " 

"  I'm  thinking  of  setting  up  for  Parlia- 
ment  " 

"  An  excellent  idea,  if  it  will  not  injure 
the  business." 

"  Oh,  it  will  not  hurt  it  at  all.  Philips 
can  manage  it  all  under  my  directions. 
Besides,  I  don't  mind  telling  a  friend  like 
you  that  this  is  the  dream  of  my  life." 

"  A  very  laudable  aim,  no  doubt,  to 


SMITHERS  tt   CO. 


191 


tliose  who  have  a  genius  for  statesman- 
ship. But  that  is  a  thing  which  is  alto- 
gether out  of  my  line.  I  l<  j)  to  busi- 
ness. And  now,  as  my  time  is  limited, 
I  must  not  stay  longer.  1  will  only  add 
that  my  impressions  are  favorable  about 
your  bank,  and  you  may  rely  upon  us  to 
any  extent  to  co-operate  with  you  in  any 
sound  enterprise.  Go  on  and  enlarge 
your  business,  and  draw  on  us  for  what 
you  want  as  before.  VI  were  you  I 
would  embark  all  my  available  means  in 
this  bank." 

"  Well,  I'm  gradually  coming  to  that, 
I  think,"  said  Potts. 

"  Then,  when  you  get  large  deposits, 
as  you  must  expect,  that  will  give  you 
additional  capital  to  work  on.  The  best 
way  when  you  have  a  bank  is  to  use 
your  cash  in  speculating  in  stocks. 
Have  you  tried  that  yet  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  not  much." 

"  If  you  wish  anything  of  that  kind 
done  we  will   do   it   for  you." 

"  But  I  don't  know  what  are  the  best 
investments." 

"  Oh,  that  is  very  easily  found  out. 
But  if  you  can't  learn,  we  will  let  you 
know.  The  Mexican  Loan  just  now  is 
the  most  promising.  Some  of  the  Cali- 
fornia companies  are  working  quietly, 
and  getting  enormous  dividends." 

"  California  ?  "  said  Potts  ;  "  that  ought 
to  pay." 

"  Oh,  there's  nothing  like  it.  I  cleared 
nearly  half  a  million  in  a  few  months." 

"  A  few  months  !  "  cried  Potts,  opening 
his  eyes. 

"Yes,  we  have  agents  who  keep  us 
well  up  ;  and  so,  you  know,  we  are  able 
to  speculate  to  the  best  advantage." 

"  California  ! "  said  Potts  thoughtfully. 
"  I  should  like  to  try  that  above  all  things. 
It  has  a  good  sound.  It  is  like  the  chink 
of  cash." 


"Yes,  yon  »et  the  pure  gold  out  of 
that.     There's   nothing   like   it." 

"  Do  you  know  any  chances  for  specu- 
lation there  ? " 
.  "  Yes,  one  or  two." 

"  Would  you  have  any  objection  to  let 
me  know  ? " 

"  Not  in  the  least — it  will  extend  your 
business.  I  will  ask  my  Junior  to  send 
you  any  particulars  you  may  desire." 

"  This  California  business  must  be  the 
best  there  is,  if  all  I  hear  is  true." 

"  You  haven't  heard  the  real  truth." 

"  Haven't  I  ?  "  exclaimed  Potts  in  won- 
der.   "  I  thought  it  was  exaggerated," 

"  I  could  tell  you  stories  far  more  won- 
derful than  anything  you  have  heard." 

"  Tell  me ! "  cried  Potts  breathlessly. 

"  Well,"  said  Smithers  confidentially, "  I 
don't  mind  telling  you  something  which 
is  known,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  in  certain 
circles  in  London,  and  is  already  being 
acted  on.  One-half  of  our  fortune  has 
been  made  it    California  operations." 

"  You  don'i  iay  so  !  " 

"  You  see,  I've  always  been  bold,"  con- 
tinued Smithers  with  an  air  of  still 
greater  confidence.  "  I  read  some  time 
since  in  one  of  Humboldt's  books  about 
gold  being  there.  At  the  first  news  of 
the  discovery  I  chartered  a  ship  and  went 
out  at  once.  I  took  everything  that 
could  be  needed.  On  arriving  at  San 
Francisco,  where  there  were  already  very 
many  people,  I  sold  the  cargo  at  an  enor- 
mous profit,  and  hired  the  ship  as  a 
warehouse  at  enormous  prices.  I  then 
organized  a  mining  company,  and  p^^t  a 
first-rate  man  at  the  head  of  it.  They 
found  a  place  on  the  Sacramento  River 
where  the  gold  really  seems  inexhaustible. 
I  worked  it  for  some  months,  and 
forwarded  two  million  sterling  to  Lon- 
don. Then  I  left,  and  my  company  is 
still  working." 


I  ; 


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19' 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


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MCS  '■ 

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U' 


"  Why  (lid  you  leave  ?  "  asked  Potts, 
brc.illilfssly. 

"  Because  I  could  make  more  money 
by  being  in  London.  My  man  there  is 
reliable.  I  have  bound  him  to  us  by 
giving  him  a  share  in  the  business. 
I'cojjle  soon  found  out  that  Smithers  & 
Co.  had  made  enormous  sums  of  money 
in  California,  but  they  don't  know  exactly 
how.  The  immense  expansion  of  our 
business  during  the  last  year  has  filled 
them  with  wonder.  F'or  you  know  every 
piece  of  gold  that  I  sent  home  has  been 
utilized  by  my  Junior," 

Potts  was  silent,  and  sat  looking  in 
breathless  admirauon  at  this  millionaire. 
All  his  thoughts  were  seen  in  his  face. 
His  whole  heart  was  laid  bare,  and  the 
one  thing  visible  was  an  intense  desire  to 
share  in  that  golden  enterprise. 

"  I  have  organized  two  companies  on 
the  same  principle  as  the  last.  The 
shares  are  selling  at  a  large  premium 
in  the  London  market.  I  take  a  lead- 
ing part  in  each,  and  my  name  gives 
stability  to  the  enterprise.  If  I  find  the 
thing  likely  to  succeed  I  continue;  if 
not,  why,  I  can  easily  sell  out.  I  am 
on  the  point  of  organizing  a  third  com- 
pany." 

"  Are  the  shares  taken  up  ? "  cried 
Potts  eagerly. 

"  No,  not  yet." 

"  Well,  could  I  obtain  some  ?  " 

"  I  really  can't  say,"  replied  Smithers. 
"  You  might  make  an  application  to  my 
Junior.  I  do  nothing  whatever  with  the 
details.  I  don't  know  what  plans  or 
agreements  he  may  have  been  making.'' 

"  I  should  like  exceedingly  to  take 
stock.    How  do  the  shares  sell  ?  " 

"  The  price  is  high,  as  we  wish  to  con- 
fine our  shareholders  to  the  richer  classes. 
We  never  put  it  at  less  than  one  thousand 
pounds  a  share," 


"  I  would  take  any  quantity." 

"  I  dare  say  some  may  be  in  the  mar- 
ket yet,"  said  Smithers  calmly.  "  They 
probably  sell  at  a  high  premium, 
though." 

"  I'd  pay  it,"  said  Potts. 

"  Well,  you  may  write  and  see ;  I  know 
nothing  about  it." 

"  And  if  they're  all  taken  up,  what 
then  ?  " 

"Oh— then— I  really  don't  know. 
Why  can't  you  organize  a  company 
yourself  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  see,  I  don't  know  anything 
about  the  place." 

"  True  ;  that  is  a  disadvantage.  But 
you  might  find  some  people  who  do 
know." 

"  That  would  be  very  difiicult.  I  do 
not  see  how  we  could  begin.  And  if 
I  did  find  anyone,  how  could  I  trust 
him?" 

"  You'd  have  to  do  as  I  did — give  him 
a  share  of  the  business." 

"  It  would  be  much  better  if  I  could 
get  some  stock  in  one  of  your  companies. 
Your  experience  and  credit  would  make 
it  a  success." 

"  Yes,  there  is  no  doubt  that  our  com- 
panies would  all  be  successful  since  we 
have  a  man  on  the  spot." 

"  And  that's  another  reason  why  I 
should  prefer  buying  stock  from  you. 
You  see,  I  might  form  a  company,  but 
what  could  I  do  ?  " 

"  Could  not  your  cashier  help  you  ?  " 

"  No,  not  in  anything  of  that  sort." 

"  Well,  I  can  say  noihing  about  it. 
My  Junior  will  tell  you  what  chances 
there  are." 

"  But  while  I  see  you  personally  I 
should  be  glad  if  you  would  consent 
to  give  me  a  chance.  Have  you  any 
objection  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no.    I  will  mention  your  case  the 


SMITIIIikS   \    CO. 


193 


know  anything 


I  did— give  him 


dit  would  make 


u  personally  I 
would  consent 
Have  you  any 

on  your  case  the 


ncxi  thne  I  write,  if  you  wish  it.  Still  I 
cannot  control  the  particular  operations 
of  the  ofTicc.  My  control  is  supreme  in 
jjeneral  matters,  and  you  see  it  would  not 
l)c  possible  for  me  to  interfere  witij  the 
smaller  details." 

"  Still  you  might  mention  me." 

"  I  will  do  so,"  saiil  Smithers,  and  tak- 
ing out  his  pockei-book  he  prepared  to 
write. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  he,  "  your  Christian 
name  is — what  ?  " 

"John— John  Potts." 

"John  Totts,"  repeated  the  other  as  he 
wrote  it  down. 

Smithers  rose.  "  You  may  continue  to 
draw  on  us  as  before,  and  any  purchases 
of  stock  which  you  wish  will  be  made." 

Potts  thanked  him  profusely. 

"  I  wish  to  see  your  cashier,  to  learn 
his  mode  of  managing  the  accounts. 
Much  depends  on  that,  and  a  short  con- 
versation will  satisfy  me." 

"  Certainly,  sir,  certainly,"  said  Potts 
obsequiously.     "  Philips  !  "  he  called. 

rhilips  came  in  as  timid  and  as  shrink- 
ing as  usual. 

"  This  is  Mr.  Smithers,  the  great  Smith- 
ers of  Smithers  &  Co.,  Bankers  ;  he  wishes 
to  have  a  talk  with  you." 

Philips  looked  at  the  great  man  with 
deep  respect  and  made  an  awkward  bow. 

"  You  may  come  with  me  to  my  hotel," 
said  Smithers  ;  and  with  a  slight  bow  to 
Potts  he  left  the  bank,  followed  by 
Philips. 

He  went  upstairs  and  into  a  large  par- 
lor on  the  second  story,  which  looked 
into  the  street.  He  motioned  Philips  to 
a  chair  near  the  window,  and  seated  him- 
self in  an  armchair  opposite. 

Smithers  looked  at  the  other  with  a 
searching  glance,  and  said  nothing  for 
some  time.  His  large,  full  eyes,  as  they 
fixed  themselves  on  the  face  of  the  other, 


seemed  to  read  his  inmost  thoughts  and 
study  every  part  of  his  weak  and  irreso- 
lute character. 

At  length  he  said  abruptly,  in  a  slow, 
rneasured  voice,  "  Edgar  Lawton  !  " 

At  the  sound  of  this  name  Philips 
started  from  his  chair,  and  stood  on  his 
feet  ttonibling.  His  face,  always  pale, 
now  became  ashen,  his  lips  turned  white, 
his  jaw  fell,  his  eyes  seemed  to  start 
froni  their  sockets.  He  stood  for  a  few 
seconds,  then  sank  back  into  a  chair. 

Smithers  eyed  him  steadfastly.  "  You 
see  I  know  you,"  said  he  after  a  time. 

Philips  cast  on  him  an  imploring  look. 

*'  The  fact  that  I  know  your  name," 
continued  Smithers,  "shows  also  that  I 
must  know  something  of  your  history. 
Do  not  forget  that !  " 

"  My— my  history  ?  "  faltered  Philips. 

"  Yes,  your  history.  I  know  it  all, 
wretched  man  !  I  knew  your  father 
whom  you  ruined,  and  whose  heart  you 
broke." 

Philips  said  not  a  word,  but  again 
turned  an  imploring  face  to  this  man. 

"  I  have  brought  you  here  to  let  you 
know  that  there  is  one  who  holds  you 
in  his  power,  and  that  one  is  myself. 
You  think  Potts  and  Clark  have  you  at 
their  mercy.  Not  so.  I  alone  hold  your 
fate  in  my  hands.  They  dare  not  do 
anything  against  you  for  fear  of  their 
own  necks." 

Philips  looked  up  now  in  wonder,  which 
was  greater  than  his  fear. 

"  Why,"  he  faltered,  "  you  are  Potts' 
friend.  You  got  him  to  start  the  bank, 
and  you  have  advanced  him  money." 

"You  are  the  cashier,"  said  Smithers 
calmly.  "  Can  you  tell  me  how  much 
the  Brandon  Bank  owes  Smithers  & 
Co.  ?  " 

Philips  looked  at  the  other  and 
hesitated. 


'  i 


■  !  ; 

!   i  '  ^  ' 

tint 


194 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


Ctzs 

—  will 

ILt 

y^  J 

*'"'a  '•    i' 


"  Speak ! " 

"  Two  hundred  and  eighty-nine  thou- 
sand pounds." 

"  And  if  Smithers  &  Co.  chose  to 
demand  payment  to-morrow,  do  you 
think  the  Brandon  Bank  would  be 
prompt  about  it  ?  " 

Philips  shook  his  head. 

"  Then  you  see  that  the  man  whom 
you  fear  is  not  so  powerful  as  some 
others." 

*'  I  thought  you  were  his  friend  ?  " 

**  Do  you  know  who  I  am  ?  " 

'*  Smithers  &  Co.,"  said  Philips  wearily. 

"  Well,  let  me  tell  you  the  plans  of 
Smithers  &  Co.  are  beyond  your  com- 
prehension. Whether  they  are  friends  to 
Potts  or  not,  it  seems  that  they  are  his 
creditors  to  an  amount  which  it  would  be 
difficult  for  him  to  pay  if  they  chose  to 
demand  it." 

Philips  looked  up.  He  caught  sight  of 
the  eyes  of  Smithers,  which  blazed  like 
two  dark,  fiery  orbs  as  they  were  fastened 
upon  him.     He  shuddered. 

"  I  merely  wished  to  show  you  the 
weakness  of  the  man  whom  you  fear. 
Shall  I  tell  you  something  else  ?  " 

Philips  looked  up  fearfully. 

"  I  have  been  in  York,  in  Calcutta,  and 
in  Manilla  ;  and  I  know  what  Potts  did  in 
each  place.  You  look  frightened.  You 
have  every  reason  to  b(  so.  I  know  what 
was  done  at  York.  I  know  that  you  were 
sei'V  t"- Botany  Bay.  I  know  that  you  ran 
away  f  -  t  your  father  to  India,  i  know 
you;'  ■ ''j  tiiere.  I  know  how  narrowly 
ycr,  e? ?aped  going  on  board  the  Vishnu, 
anil  V'Ci'g  ir.iplicated  in  the  Manilla 
4r»urder.  Madman  that  you  were,  why 
did  you  not  ^ake  your  poor  mother  and 
fly  from  these  wretches  forever  ?  " 

Philips  trembled  from  head  to  foot. 
He  said  not  a  word,  but  bowed  his  head 
upon  his  knees  and  wept. 


"  Where  is  she  now  ?  "  said  Smithers 
sternly.  Philips  mechanically  raised  his 
head,  and  pointed  over  toward  Brandon 
Hall. 

"  is  she  conhned  against  her  will  ?  " 

Philips  shook  his  head. 

"She  stays,  then,  through  love  of 
you  ?  " 

Philips  nodded. 

'*  Is  anyone  else  there  ?  "  said  Smithers 
after  a  pause,  and  in  a  strange,  sad  voice, 
in  which  ther€  was  a  faltering  tone  which 
Philips,  in  his  fright,  did  not  notice. 

"  Miss  Potts,"  he  said. 

"  She  is  treated  cruelly,"  said  Smithers. 
"  They  say  she  is  a  prisoner  ?  " 

Philips  nodded. 

"  Has  she  been  sick  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  How  long  ?  " 

"  Eight  months,  last  year." 

"  Is  she  well  now  }  " 

"  Yes." 

Smithers  bowed  his  head  in  silence, 
and  put  his  hand  on  his  heart.  Philips 
watched  him  iii  an  agony  of  fright,  as 
though  every  instant  he  was  apprehen- 
sive of  some  terrible  calamity. 

"  How  is  she  ? "  continued  Smithers 
after  a  time.  "  Has  she  ever  been  happy 
since  she  went  there  ?  " 

Philips  shook  his  head  slowly  and 
mournfully. 

"Does  her  father  ever  show  her  any 
affection  ?  " 

"  Never." 

"  Does  her  brother  ?  " 

"  Never." 

"  Is  there  anyone  who  does  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Who  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Compton." 

"  Your  mother  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"I  will  not  forget  that.    No,  I  will 


SMITHERS   &    CO. 


«95 


lat.     No,  I  will 


never  forget  that.  Do  you  think  that 
she  is  exposed  to  any  danger  ?  " 

"  Miss  Potts  ?  " 

Smithers  bowed. 

"  I  don't  know.    I  sometimes  fear  so." 

"  Of  what  kind  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Almost  any  horrible 
thing  may  happen  in  that  horrible  place." 

A  pang  of  agony  shot  across  the 
sombre  brow  of  Smithers.  He  was 
silent  for  a  long  time. 

"  Have  you  ever  slighted  her  ? "  he 
asked  at  last. 

"  Never,"  cried  Philips.  "  I  could 
worship  her " 

Smithers  smiled  upon  him  with  a  smile 
so  sweet  that  it  chased  all  Philips'  fears 
away.  He  took  courage  and  began  to 
show  more  calm. 

"  Fear  nothing,"  said  Smithers  in  a 
gentle  voice.  "  I  see  that  in  spite  of 
your  follies  and  crimes  there  is  some- 
tliing  good  in  you  yet.  You  love  your 
mother,  do  you  not  ?  " 

Tears  came  into  Philips'  eyes.  He 
sighed.    "  Yes,"  he  said  humbly. 

"  And  you  are  kind  to  her — that  other 

"  I  love  her  as  my  mother,"  said  Phil- 
ips earnestly. 

Smithers  again  relapsed  into  silence 
for  a  long  time.  At  last  he  looked  up. 
Philips  saw  his  eyes  this  time,  no  longer 
stern  and  wrathful,  but  benignant  and 
indulgent. 

"  You  have  been  all  your  life  under  the 
power  of  merciless  men,"  said  he.  "  You 
have  been  led  by  them  into  folly  and 
crime  and  suffering.  Often  you  have 
been  forced  to  act  against  your  will. 
Poor  wretch !  I  can  save  you,  and  I  in- 
tend to  do  so  in  spite  of  yourself.  You 
fear  these  masters  of  yours.  You  must 
know  now  that  I,  not  they,  am  to  be 
feaiecl,   They  know  your  secret,  but  dare 


not  use  it  against  you,  I  know  it,  and 
can  use  it  if  I  choose.  You  have  been 
afraid  of  them  all  your  life.  Fear  them 
no  longer,  but  fear  me.  These  men  whom 
you  fear  are  in  my  power  as  well  as  you 
are.  I  know  all  their  secrets — there  is 
not  a  crime  of  theirs  of  which  you  know 
that  I  do  not  know  also,  and  I  know  far 
more. 

"  You  must  from  this  time  forth  be  my 
agent.  Smithers  «S:  Co.  have  agents  in 
all  parts  of  the  world.  You  shall  be 
their  agent  in  Brandon  Hall.  You  shall 
say  nothing  of  this  interview  to  anyone, 
not  even  to  your  mother ;  you  shall  not 
dare  to  communicate  with  me  unless  you 
are  requested,  excent  about  such  things 
as  I  shall  specify.  If  you  dare  to  shrink 
in  any  one  point  from  your  duty,  at  that 
instant  I  will  come  down  upon  you  with 
a  heavy  hand.  You,  too,  are  watched.  I 
have  other  agents  here  in  Brandon  besides 
yourself.  Many  of  those  who  go  to  the 
bank  as  customers  are  my  agents.  You 
cannot  be  false  without  my  knowing  it ; 
and  when  you  are  false,  that  moment  you 
shall  be  handed  over  to  the  authorities. 
Do  you  hear?" 

The  face  of  Smithers  was  mild,  but  his 
tone  was  stern.  It  was  the  warning  of  a 
just  yet  merciful  master.  All  the  timid 
nature  of  Philips  bent  in  deep  subjection 
before  the  powerful  spirit  of  this  man. 
He  bowed  his  head  in  silence. 

"  Whenever  an  order  comes  to  you 
from  Smithers  &  Co.  you  must  obey  ;  if 
you  do  not  obey  instantly,  whatever  it  is, 
it  will  be  at  the  risk  of  your  life.  Do  you 
hear?" 

Philips  bowed. 

"  There  is  only  one  thing  now  in  which 
I  wish  you  to  do  anything.  You  must 
send  every  month  a  notice  directed  to 
Mr.  Smithers,  senior,  about  the  health 
of  his  daughter.    Shou'd    any    sudden 


i  i 

!   I 


,    1,  ■ 


, 


J  ! 


196 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


,> 


ttwlj 


•2-  '■«. 
sr  If.. 


ILt 
CC 


Iff':  i 


IS  ! 
ll  1  i  • 


danger  impend  you  must  nt  once  com- 
municate it.    You  understand  ?  " 

Philips  bowed. 

"Once  more  I  warn  you  always  to 
remember  that  I  am  your  master.  Fail 
in  one  single  thing,  and  you  perish. 
Obey  me,  and  you  shall  be  rewarded. 
Now  go  !  " 

Philips  rose,  and,  more  dead  than  alive, 
tottered  from  the  room. 

When  he  left  Smithers  locked  the 
door.  He  then  went  to  the  window 
and  stood  looking  at  Brandon  Hall, 
with  his  stern  face  softened  into  sad- 
ness. He  hummed  low  words  as  he 
stood  there — words  which  once  had 
been    sung    far    away.    Among     them 


were     these,    with    which    the    strain 
ended  : 

"  And  the  sad  memory  of  our  life  below 
Shall  but  unite  us  closer  evermore  ; 
No  act  of  thine  shall  loose 
Thee  from  the  eternal  bond, 
Nor  shall  Revenge  have  power 
To  disunite  us  t/iere  I  " 

With  a  sigh  he  sat  down  and  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands.  His  gray  hair  loosened 
and  fell  off  as  he  sat  there.  At  last  he 
raised  his  head,  and  revealed  the  face  of 
a  young  man  whose  dark  hair  showed  the 
gray  beard  to  be  false. 

Yet  when  ho  once  more  put  on  his  wig 
none  but  a  most  intimate  friend  with  the 
closest  scrutiny  could  recognize  there  the 
features  of  Louis  Brandon. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 


PAOLO     LANGHETTI 


Many  weeks  passed  on,  and  music  still 
formed  the  chief  occupation  in  life  for 
Despard  and  Mrs.  Thornton.  His  jour- 
ney to  Brandon  village  had  been  without 
result.  He  knew  not  what  to  do.  The 
enquiries  which  he  made  everywhere 
turned  out  useless.  Finally  Thornton 
informed  him  that  it  was  utterly  hope- 
less, at  a  period  so  long  after  the  event, 
to  attempt  to  do  anything  whatever. 
Enough  had  been  done  long  ago.  Now 
nothing  more  could  possibly  be  effected. 

Baffled,  but  not  daunted,  Despard  fell 
back  for  the  present  from  his  purpose, 
yet  still  cherished  it  and  wrote  to  different 
quarters  for  information.  Meantime  he 
had  to  return  to  his  life  at  Holby,  and 
Mrs.  Thornton  was  still  ready  to  assist 
him. 

So  the  time  went  on,  and  the  weeks 


passed,  till  one  day  in  March  Despard 
went  up  as  usual. 

On  entering  the  parlor  he  heard  voices, 
and  saw  a  stranger.  Mrs.  Thornton 
greeted  him  as  usual  and  sat  down  smil- 
ing. The  stranger  rose,  and  he  and  Des- 
pard looked  at  one  another. 

He  was  of  medium  size  and  slight  in 
figure.  His  brow  was  very  broad  and 
high.  His  hair  was  black,  and  clustered 
in  curls  over  his  head.  His  eyes  were 
large,  and  seemed  to  possess  an  un- 
fathomable depth,  which  gave  them  a 
certain  undefinable  and  mystic  meaning- 
liquid  eyes,  yet  lustrous,  where  all  the 
soul  seemed  to  live  and  show  itself— 
benignant  in  their  glance,  yet  lofty,  like 
the  eyes  of  a  being  from  some  superior 
sphere.  His  face  was  thin  and  shaven 
close,  his  lips  also  \yere  thin,  wjth  a  per- 


i  y 


PAOLO    LANGHETTI 


1    the    Strain 

life  below 
ermore ; 

I, 
)wer 

and  buried  his 
y  hair  loosened 
e.  At  last  he 
led  the  face  of 
lair  showed  the 

put  on  his  wig 
friend  with  the 
agnize  there  the 


March  Despard 

he  heard  voices, 
Mrs.  Thornton 
\  sat  down  sniil- 
and  he  and  Des- 
ler. 

ze  and  slight  in 
very  broad  and 
ck,  and  clustered 
His  eyes  were 
possess  an    un- 
ch   gave  them  a 
nystic  meaning- 
is,  where  all  the 
lid  show  itself— 
ice,  yet  lofty,  like 
m  some  superior 
thin  and  shaven 
thin,  with  a  per- 


petual smile  of  marvellous  sweetness  and 
gentleness  hovering  about  them.  It  was 
buch  a  face  as  artists  love  to  give  to  the 
Apostle  John — the  sublime,  the  divine, 
the  loving,  the  inspired. 

"You  do  not  know  him,"  said  Mrs. 
Thornton.    "  It  is  Paolo  !  " 

Despard  at  once  advanced  and  greeted 
him  with  the  warmest  cordiality. 

"  I  was  only  a  little  fellow  when  I  saw 
you  last,  and  you  have  changed  some- 
what since  then,"  said  Despard.  ''  But 
when  did  you  arrive  ?  I  knew  that  you 
were  expected  in  England,  but  was  not 
sure  that  you  would  come  here." 

"  What !  Teresuola  mia"  said  Lan- 
ghetti,  with  a  fond  smile  at  his  sister. 
"Were  you  really  not  sure,  sorellina, 
that  I  would  come  to  see  you  first  of  all } 
Infidel ! "  and  he  shook  his  head  at  her 
playfully. 

A  long  conversation  followed,  chiefly 
about  Langhetti's  plans.  He  was  going 
to  engage  a  place  in  London  for  his 
opera,  but  wished  first  to  secure  a  singer. 
Oh,  if  he  only  could  find  Bice — his  Bicina, 
the  divinest  voice  that  mortals  ever 
heard. 

Despard  and  Mrs.  Thornton  exchanged 
glances,  and  at  last  Despard  told  him 
that  there  was  a  person  of  the  same  name 
at  Brandon  Hall.  She  was  living  in  a 
seclusion  so  strict  that  it  seemed  confine- 
ment, and  there  was  a  mystery  about  her 
situation  which  he  had  tried  without  suc- 
cess to  fathom. 

Langhetti  listened  with  a  painful  sur- 
prise that  seemed  like  positive  anguish. 

"Then  I  must  go  myself.  Oh,  my 
Bicina — to  what  misery  have  you  come  ! 
But  do  you  say  that  you  have  been  there  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Did  you  go  to  the  Hall  ?  " 

"  No." 

"Why  not?" 


"  Because   I   know 
villain  indescribable — 


197 

the  man  to  be  a 


(  ; 


Langhetti  thought  for  a  moment,  and 
then  said : 

"  True,  he  is  all  that,  and  perhaps  more 
than  you  imagine." 

"  I  have  done  the  utmost  that  can  be 
done  !  "  said  Despard. 

"  Perhaps  so ;  still  each  one  wishes 
to  try  for  himself,  and  though  I  can 
scarce  hope  to  be  mere  successful  than 
you,  yet  I  must  try,  if  only  for  my  own 
peace  of  mind.  Oh,  Bicina  cara!  to 
think  of  her  sweet  and  gentle  nature 
being  subject  to  such  torments  as  those 
ruffians  can  inflict ! 

"  You  do  not  kpow  how  it  is,"  said  he 
at  last  very  solemnly ;  "  but  there  are 
reasons  of  transcendent  importance  why 
Bice  should  be  rescued.  I  cannot  tell 
them  ;  but  if  I  dared  mention  what  I 
hope,  if  I  only  dared  to  speak  my 
thoughts,  you — you,"  he  cried  with 
piercing  emphasis,  and  in  a  tone  that 
thrilled  through  Despard,  to  whom  he 
spoke,  "  you  would  make  it  the  aim 
of  all  your  life  to  save  her." 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  said  Despard 
in  astonishment. 

"  No,  no,"  murmured  Langhetti. 
"  You  do  not ;  nor  dare  I  explain  what 
I  mean.  It  has  been  in  my  thoughts  for 
years.  It  was  brought  to  my  mind  first 
in  Hong  Kong,  when  she  was  there. 
Only  one  person  besides  Potts  can  ex- 
plain ;  only  one." 

"  Who  ?  "  cried  Despard  eagerly. 

"  A  woman  named  Compton." 

"  Compton ! " 

"Yes.  Perhaps  she  is  dead.  Alas, 
and  alas,  and  alas,  if  she  is  !  Yet  could  I 
but  see  that  woman  I  would  tear  the 
truth  from  her  if  I  perished  in  the 
attempt ! " 

And  Langhetti  stretched  out  his  long, 


i 


198 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


Co*  '.<  Ilk     ')' 
^»"  >.r 

It 


»-^3ii 


■C-l: 


(■>»•«" 

>• 

ILt 

c: 

••• 

''a 

f: 

"m 

••->». 

m 

CC 

^^ 

1 

Ik 

"•<» 

w 

;^2 

'm 

m 

""-.•« 

'm 

■■^•i» 

'I 

slender  hand,  as  though  he  were  plucking 
out  the  very  heart  of  some  imaginary 
enemy. 

"  Think,  Teresuola,"  said  he  after  a 
while,  "  if  you  were  in  captivity,  what 
would  become  of  my  opera?  Could  I 
have  the  heart  to  think  about  operas, 
even  if  I  believed  that  they  contributed  to 
the  welfare  of  the  world,  if  your  welfare 
was  at  stake  ?  Now  you  know  that  next 
to  you  stands  Bice.  I  must  try  and  save 
her — I  must  give  up  all.  My  opera  must 
stand  aside  till  it  be  God's  will  that  I  give 
it  forth.  No,  the  one  object  of  my  life 
now  must  be  to  find  Bice,  to  see  her  or  to 
see  Mrs.  Compton,  if  she  is  alive." 

"  Is  the  secret  of  so  much  importance  ?" 
asked  Despard. 

Langhetti  looked  at  him  with  mournful 
meaning. 

"  If  you  but  suspected  it,"  said  he, 
"  your  peace  of  mind  would  be  lost.  I 
will  therefore  on  no  account  tell  it." 

Despard  loo  I'  J  at  him  wonderingly. 
What  could  he  mean  ?  How  could  any- 
one affect  him  ?  His  peace  of  mind  ! 
That  had  been  lost  long  ago.  And  if 
this  secret  was  so  terrible  it  would  dis- 
tract his  mind  from  its  grief,  its  care, 
and  its  longing.  Peace  would  be  re- 
stored rather  than  destroyed. 

"  I  must  find  her.  I  must  find  her," 
said  Langhetti,  speaking  half  to  himself. 
"  I  am  weak  ;  but  much  can  be  done  by 
a  resolute  will." 

"  Perhaps  Mr.  Thornton  can  assist 
you,"  said  Despard. 

Langhetti  shook  his  head. 

"  No ;  he  is  a  man  of  law,  and  does 
not  understand  the  man  who  acts  from 
feeling.  I  can  be  as  logical  as  he,  but  I 
obey  impulses  which  are  unintelligible  to 
him.  He  would  simply  advise  me  to  give 
up  the  matter,  adding,  perhaps,  that  I 
would  do  myself  no  good.    Whereas  he 


cannot  understand  that  it  makes  no  dif- 
erence  to  me  whether  I  do  myself  good 
or  not ;  and  again,  that  the  highest  good 
that  I  can  do  myself  is  to  seek  after  her." 

Mrs.  Thornton  looked  at  Despard,  but 
he  avoided  her  glance. 

"No,"  said  Langhetti,  "I  will  ask 
assistance  from  another— from  you,  Des- 
pard. You  are  one  who  acts  as  I  act. 
Come  with  me." 

"  When  ?  " 

"  To-morrow  morning." 

"  I  will." 

"  Of  course  you  will.  You  would  not 
be  a  Despard  if  you  did  not.  You  would 
not  be  the  son  of  your  father — your 
father!"  he  repeated  in  thrilling  tones 
as  his  eyes  flashed  with  enthusiasm. 
"  Despard,"  he  cried  after  a  pause,  "your 
father  was  a  man  whom  you  might  pray 
to  now.  I  saw  him  once.  Shall  I  ever 
forget  the  day  when  he  calmly  went  to 
lay  down  his  life  for  my  father?  Des- 
pard, I  worship  your  father's  memory. 
Come  with  me.  Let  us  emulate  those 
two  noble  men  who  once  before  rescued 
a  captive.  We  cannot  risk  our  lives  as 
they  did.  Let  us  at  least  do  what  we 
can." 

"  I  will  do  exactly  what  you  say.  You 
can  think  and  I  will  act."     , 

"  No,  you  must  think  too.  Neither  of 
us  belong  to  the  class  of  practical  men 
whom  the  world  now  delights  to  honor ; 
but  no  practical  man  would  go  on  our 
errand.  No  practical  man  would  have 
rescued  my  father.  Generous  and  lofty 
acts  must  always  be  done  by  those  who 
are  not  practical  men. 

"But  I  must  go  out.  I  must  think," 
he  continued.  "  I  will  go  and  walk  about 
the  grounds." 

Saying  this  he  left  the  room. 

"Where  is  Edith  Brandon?"  asked 
Despard  after  he  had  gone. 


FLIGHT 


makes  no  dif- 
0  myself  good 
e  highest  good 
leek  after  her. " 
t  Despard,  but 

,  "  I  will    ask 

from  you,  Des- 

acts  as  I  act. 


"  She  is  here,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton. 

"  Have  you  seen  her  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Is  she  what  you  anticipated  f  " 


199 

"  More.     She  is  indescribable.     She  is 

almost  unearthly.  I  feel  awe  of  her,  but 

not  fear.    She  is  too  sweet  to  inspire 
fear." 


CHAPTER  XXXII 


\  1 


FLIGHT 


You  would  not 
ot.  You  would 
ar  father— your 

thrilling  tones 
ith  enthusiasm, 
r  a  pause,  "  your 
you  might  pray 
ce.    Shall  I  ever 

calmly  went  to 
y  father?  Dts- 
ather's  memory. 
emulate  those 
e  before  rescued 
risk  our  lives  as 
ast  do  what  we 

It  you  say.    You 

too.  Neither  of 
of  practical  men 
elights  to  honor; 
vould  go  on  our 
man  would  have 
;nerous  and  lofty 
)ne  by  those  who 

I  must  think," 
to  and  walk  about 


e  room. 

Jrandon?"  asked 
rone. 


The  last  entry  in  Beatr'ce's  journal  was 
made  by  her  in  the  hope  that  it  might  be 
the  last. 

In  her  life  at  Brandon  Hall  her  soul 
had  grown  stronger  and  more  resolute. 
Besides,  it  had  now  come  to  tiiis,  that 
henceforth  she  must  either  stay  and  ac- 
cept the  punishment  which  they  might 
contrive  or  fly  instantly. 

For  she  had  dared  them  to  their  faces ; 
slie  had  told  them  of  their  crimes ;  she 
had  threatened  punishment.  She  had 
said  that  she  was  the  avenger  of  Despard. 
If  she  had  desired  instant  death  she 
could  have  said  no  more  than  that. 
Would  they  pass  it  by  ?  She  knew  their 
secret— the  secret  of  secrets ;  she  had 
proclaimed  it  to  their  faces.  She  had 
called  Potts  a  Thug  and  disowned  him 
as  her  father ;  what  now  remained  ? 

But  one  thing — flight.  And  this  she 
was  fully  resolved  to  try.  She  prepared 
notliing.  To  gain  the  outside  world  was 
all  she  wished.  The  need  of  money  was 
not  thought  of ;  nor  if  it  had  been  would 
it  have  made  any  difference.  She  could 
not  have  obtained  it. 

The  one  idea  in  her  mind  was  there- 
fore flight.  She  had  concealed  her  jour- 
nal under  a  loose  piece  of  the  flooring  in 
one  of  the  closets  of  her  room,  being  un- 
willing to  encumber  herself  with  it,  and 


dreading  the  result  of  a  search  in  case 
she  was  captured. 

She  made  no  other  preparations  what- 
ever. A  light  hat  and  a  thin  jacket  were 
all  that  she  took  to  resist  the  chill  air  of 
March.  There  was  a  fever  in  her  veins 
which  was  heightened  by  excitement  and 
suspense. 

Mrs.  Compton  was  in  her  room  during 
the  evening.  Beatrice  said  but  little. 
Mrs.  Compton  talked  drearily  about  the 
few  topics  on  which  she  generally  spoke. 
She  never  dared  talk  about  the  affairs  of 
the  house. 

Beatrice  was  not  impatient,  for  she  had 
no  idea  of  trying  to  escape  Lefore  mid- 
night. She  sat  silently  while  Mrr>.  Comp- 
ton talked  or  prosed,  absorbed  in  her 
own  thoughts  and  plans.  The  hours 
seemed  to  her  interminable.  Slowly  and 
heavily  they  dragged  on.  Beatrice's  sus- 
pense and  excitement  grew  stronger 
every  moment,  yet  by  a  violent  effort  she 
preserved  so  perfect  an  outward  calm 
that  a  closer  observer  than  Mrs.  Compton 
would  have  failed  to  detect  any  emotion. 

At  last  about  ten  o'clock  Mrs.  Comp- 
ton retired,  with  many  kind  wishes  to 
Beatrice,  and  many  anxious  counsels  as 
to  her  health.  Beatrice  listened  patiently, 
and  made  some  general  remarks,  after 
which  Mrs.  Compton  withdrew. 


II 


200 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


aUt  ■ 

V^"»i       jf.; 

as:'  I 

U'V  '^ 

"»—  i^ 

ILt 

or; 

,U,  i 

'—■ * 

"■■^  '<• 


She  was  now  left  to  herself,  and  two 
hours  still  remained  before  she  could 
dare  to  venture.  She  paced  the  room 
fretfully  and  anxiously,  wondering  why  it 
was  that  the  time  seemed  so  long,  and 
looking  from  time  to  time  at  her  watch 
in  the  hope  of  finding  that  half  an  hour 
had  passed,  but  seeing  to  her  disappoint- 
ment that  only  two  or  three  minutes  had 
gone. 

At  last  eleven  o'clock  came.  She  stole 
out  quietly  into  the  hall  and  went  to  the 
top  of  the  grand  stairway.  There  she 
stood  and  listened. 

The  sound  of  voices  came  up  from  the 
dining  room,  which  was  near  the  hall 
door.  She  knew  to  whom  those  voices 
belonged.  Evidently  it  was  not  yet  the 
time  for  her  venture. 

She  went  back,  controlling  her  excite- 
ment as  best  she  might.  At  last,  after 
a  long,  long  suspense,  midnight  sounded. 

Again  she  went  to  the  head  of  the 
stairway.  The  voices  were  still  heard. 
They  kept  late  hours  down  there.  Could 
she  try  now  while  they  were  still  up  ? 
Not  yet. 

Not  yet.  The  suspense  became  agon- 
izing. How  could  she  wait?  Bi  c  she 
went  back  again  to  her  room,  and 
smothered  her  feelings  until  one  o'clock 
came. 

Again  she  went  to  the  head  of  the 
stairway.  She  heard  nothing.  She  could 
see  a  light  streaming  from  the  door  of 
the  dining  hall  below.  Lights  also  were 
burning  in  the  hall  itself ;  but  she  heard 
no  voices. 

Softly  and  quietly  she  went  downstairs. 
The  lights  flashed  out  through  the  door 
of  the  dining  room  into  the  hall ;  and  as 
she  arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  she 
heard  subdued  voices  in  conversation. 
Her  heart  beat  faster.  They  were  all 
there !    What    if   they  now  discovered 


her?    What    mercy   would    they  show 
her,  even  if  they  were  capable  of  mercy  ? 

Fear  lent  wings  to  her  feet.  She  was 
almost  afraid  to  breathe  for  fear  that 
they  might  hear  her.  She  stole  on  quietly 
and  noiselessly  up  the  passage  that  led  to 
the  north  end,  and  at  last  reached  it. 

All  was  dark  there.  At  this  end  there 
was  a  door.  On  each  side  was  a  kind  of 
recess  formed  by  the  pillars  of  the  door- 
way. The  door  was  generally  used  by 
the  servants,  and  also  by  the  inmates  of 
the  house  for  convenience. 

The  key  was  in  it.  There  was  no 
light  in  the  immediate  vicinity.  Around 
it  all  was  gloom.  Near  by  was  a  stair- 
way, which  led  to  the  servants'  hall. 

She  took  the  key  in  her  hands,  which 
trembled  violently  with  excitement,  and 
turned  it  in  the  lock. 

Scarcely  had  she  done  so  when  she 
heard  footsteps  and  voices  behind  her. 
She  looked  hastily  back,  and,  to  her 
horror,  saw  two  servants  approaching 
with  a  lamp.  It  was  impossible  for  her 
now  to  open  the  door  and  go  out.  Con- 
cealment was  her  only  plan. 

But  how?  There  was  no  time  for 
hesitation.  Without  stopping  to  think 
she  slipped  into  one  of  the  niches  formed 
by  the  projecting  pillars,  and  gathered 
her  skirts  close  about  hef  so  aL  to  be  as 
little  conspicuous  as  possible.  There  she 
stood  awaiting  the  result.  She  half 
wished  that  she  had  turned  back.  For  if 
she  were  now  discovered  in  evident  con- 
cealment what  excuse  could  she  give? 
She  could  not  hope  to  bribe  them,  for  she 
had  no  money.  And,  what  was  worst, 
these  servants  were  the  two  who  had 
been  the  most  insolent  to  her  from  the 
first. 

She  could  do  nothing,  therefore,  but 
wait.  They  came  nearer,  and  at  last 
reached  the  door. 


FLIGHT 


aoi 


^g,  therefore,  but 
arer,  and  at  last 


"  Hallo  I "  said  one,  as  he  turned  the 
key.    "  It's  been  unlocked ! " 

"  It  haint  been  locked  yet,"  said  the 
other. 

"  Yes,  it  has.  I  locked  it  myself, 
an  hour  ago.  Who  could  have  been 
here  ?  " 

"  Anyone,"  said  the  other  quietly. 
"  Our  blessed  young  master  has,  no  doubt, 
been  out  this  way." 

"No,  he  hasn't.  He  hasn't  stirred 
from  his  whisky  since  eight  o'clock." 

"  Nonsense !  You're  making  a  fuss 
about  nothing.  Lock  the  door  and  come 
along." 

"Anyhow,  I'm  responsible,  and  I'll 
get  a  precious  overhauling  if  this  thing 
goes  on.  I'll  take  the  key  with  me  this 
time." 

And  saying  this,  the  man  locked  the 
door  and  took  out  the  key.  Both  of 
them  then  descended  to  the  servants' 
hall. 

The  noise  of  that  key  as  it  grated  in  the 
lock  sent  a  thrill  through  the  heart  of 
the  trembling  listener.  It  seemed  to  take 
all  hope  from  her.  The  servants  de- 
parted. She  had  not  been  discovered. 
But  what  was  to  be  done  ?  She  had  not 
been  prepared  for  this. 

She  stood  for  some  time  in  despair. 
She  thought  of  other  ways  of  escape. 
There  was  the  hall  door  which  she  did 
not  dare  to  try,  for  she  would  have  to 
pass  directly  in  front  of  the  dining  room. 
Then  there  was  the  south  door  at  the 
oilier  end  of  the  building,  which  was  sel- 
dom used.  She  knew  of  no  others.  She 
determined  to  try  the  south  door. 

Quietly  and  swiftly  she  stoh  away,  and 
glided,  like  a  ghost,  along  the  entire 
length  of  the  building.  It  was  quite  dark 
at  the  south  end  as  it  had  been  at  the 
north.  She  reached  the  door  without 
accident. 


There  was  no  key  in  it.  It  was  locked. 
Escape  by  that  way  was  impossible. 

She  stood  despairing.  Only  one  way 
was  now  left,  and  that  lay  through  the 
hall-door  itself. 

Suddenly,  as  she  stood  there,  she  heard 
footsteps.  A  figure  came  down  the  long 
hall  straight  toward  her.  There  was  not 
the  slightest  chance  of  concealment  here. 
There  were  no  pillars  behind  which  she 
might  crouch.  She  must  stand,  then, 
and  take  the  consequences.  Or,  rather, 
would  it  not  be  better  to  walk  forward 
and  meet  this  new-comer  ?  Yes ;  that 
would  be  best.    She  determined  to  do  so. 

So,  with  a  quiet,  slow  step  she  walked 
back  through  the  long  corridor.  About 
half-way  she  met  the  other.  He  stopped 
and  started  back. 

"  Miss  Potts ! "  he  exclaimed  in  sur- 
prise. 

It  was  the  voice  of  Philips. 

"  Ah,  Philips,"  said  she  quietly,  "  1  am 
walking  about  for  exercise  and  amuse- 
ment. I  cannot  sleep.  Don't  be  startled. 
It's  only  me." 

Philips  stood  like  one  paralyzed. 

"  Don't  be  cast  down,"  he  said  at  last 
in  a  trembling  voice.  "  You  have  friends, 
powerful  friends.    They  will  save  you," 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Beatrice 
in  wonder, 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Philips  myster- 
iously. "  It  will  be  all  right.  I  dare  not 
tell.    But  cheer  up." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  friends  ?  " 

"  You  have  friends  who  are  more 
powerful  than  your  enemies,  that's  all," 
said  Philips  hurriedly.    "  Cheer  up." 

Beatrice  wondered.  A  vague  thought 
of  Brandon  came  over  her  mind,  but  she 
dismissed  it  at  once.  Yet  the  thought 
gave  her  a  delicious  joy,  and  at  once  dis- 
pelled the  extreme  agitation  which  had 
thus  far  disturbed  her.    Could  Philips 


'! : 


I  f 


302 


CURU    AND   CREESE 


k: 

'*•...  ■', 
"crihi  ■ 

ttm—  1^ 

ILL 

w — ,„ 
Ml  j 


"--I 


be  connected  with  /im  ?  Was  //^  in 
reality  considerate  about  her  while  shap- 
ing the  course  of  his  gloomy  vengeance  ? 
These  were  the  thoughts  which  Hashed 
across  her  mind  as  she  stood. 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  she  at  last ; 
"  but  I  hope  it  may  be  as  you  say.  God 
knows  I  need  friends !  " 

She  walked  away,  and  Philips  also  went 
onward.  She  walked  slowly  until  at  last 
his  steps  died  out  in  the  distance.  Then 
a  door  banged.  Evidently  she  had 
nothing  to  fear  from  him.  At  last  she 
reached  the  main  hall,  and  stopped  for  a 
moment.  The  lights  from  the  dining 
room  were  still  flashing  out  through  the 
door.  The  grand  entrance  lay  before  her. 
There  was  tiie  door  of  the  hall,  the  only 
way  of  escape  that  now  remained.  Dare 
she  try  it } 

She  deliberated  long.  Two  alterna- 
tives lay  before  her — to  go  back  to 
her  own  room,  or  to  try  to  pass  that 
<loor.  To  go  back  was  as  repul- 
sive as  death,  in  fact  m(  re  so.  If  the 
choice  had  been  placed  full  before  her 
then,  to  die  on  the  spot  or  to  go  back 
to  her  room,  she  would  have  deliberately 
chosen  death.  The  thought  of  returning, 
therefore,  was  the  last  upon  which  she 
could  dwell,  and  that  of  going  forward 
was  the  only  one  left.  To  this  she  gave 
her  attention. 

At  last  she  made  up  her  mind  and 
advanced  cautiously,  close  by  the  wall, 
toward  the  hall-door.  After  a  time  she 
reached  the  door  of  the  dining  room. 
Could  she  venture  to  pass  it,  and  how  ? 
She  paused.  She  listened.  There  were 
low  voices  in  the  room.  Then  they  were 
still  awake,  still  able  to  detect  her  if  she 
passed  the  door. 

She  looked  all  around.  The  hall  was 
wide.  On  the  opposite  side  the  wall  was 
but  feebly  lighted.    The  hall  lights  had 


been  put  out,  and  those  which  shone 
from  the  room  extended  forward  liut  a 
short  distance.  It  was  just  possible 
therefore  to  oscape  observation  by  cross- 
ing the  doorway  along  the  wall  that  was 
most  distant  from  it. 

Yet  before  she  tried  this  she  ventured  to 
put  forward  her  head  so  as  to  peep  intu 
the  room.  She  stooped  low,  and  looked 
cautiously  and  slowly. 

The  three  were  then  at  the  farthest  end 
of  the  room.  Bottles  and  glasses  stooil 
before  them,  and  they  were  conversing  in 
low  tones.  Those  tones,  however,  wcie 
not  so  low  but  that  they  reached  her  ears. 
They  were  speaking  about  her. 

"  How  could  she  have  found  it  out  ? " 
said  Clark. 

"  Mrs.  Compton  only  knows  one  thing y 
said  Potts,  "and  that  is  the  secret  about 
her.  Sne  knows  nothing  more.  How 
could  she  ?  " 

"  Then  how  could  that  cursed  girl  have 
found  out  about  the  Thug  business  ? " 
exclaimed  John. 

There  was  no  reply. 

"  She's  a  deep  one,"  said  John,  "  d d 

deep— deeper  than  I  ever  thought.  I 
always  said  she  was  plucky — cursed 
plucky— but  now  I  see  she's  deep  too 
— and  I  begin  to  have  my  doubts  about 
the  way  she  ought  to  be  took  down." 

"  I  never  could  make  her  out,"  said 
Potts.  *'  And  now  I  don't  even  begin 
to  understand  how  she  could  know  that 
which  only  we  have  known.  Do  you 
think,  Clark,  that  the  devil  could  have 
told  her  of  it?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Clark.  "  Nobody  but  the 
devil  could  have  told  her  that,  and  my 
belief  is  that  she's  the  devil  himself. 
She's  the  only  person  I  ever  felt  afraid 

of.      D n  it,  I  can't  look  her  in  the 

face." 

Beatrice  retreated  and  passed  across  to 


;rii: 


FLIGHT 


203 


id  passed  across  I 


the  opposite  wall.  She  did  not  wish  to 
licar  or  see  more.  She  glided  by.  She 
was  not  noticed.  She  heard  John's  voice 
—sharp  and  clear : 

"  We'll  have  to  begin  to-morrow  and 
t;ike  her  down — that's  a  fact."  This  was 
followed  by  sMence. 

lieatrice  reached  the  door.  She  turned 
the  knob.  Oh,  joy  I  it  was  not  locked. 
It  opened. 

Noiselessly  she  passed  through  ;  noise- 
lessly she  shut  it  behind  her.  She  was 
outside.     She  was  free. 

The  moon  shone  brightly.  It  illumined 
the  lawn  in  front  and  the  tops  of  the 
clumps  of  trees  whose  dark  foliage  rose 
before  her.  She  saw  all  this ;  yet,  in  her 
eagerness  to  escape,  she  saw  nothing 
more,  but  sped  away  swiftly  down  the 
steps,  across  the  lawn,  and  under  the 
shade  of  the  trees. 

Which  way  should  she  go  ?  There 
was  the  main  avenue,  which  led  in  a 
winding  direction  toward  the  gate  and 
the  porter's  lodge.  There  vvar>  also 
another  path  which  the  servants  gener- 
ally took.  This  led  to  the  gate  also. 
Beatrice  thought  that  by  going  down 
this  path  she  might  come  near  the  gate 
and  then  turn  off  to  the  wall  and  try  and 
climb  over. 

A  few  moments  of  thought  were  suffi- 
cient for  her  decision.  She  took  the  path 
and  went  hurriedly  along,  keeping  on  the 
side  where  the  shadow  was  thickest. 

She  walked  swiftly,  until  at  length  she 
came  to  a  place  where  the  path  ended. 
It  was  close  by  the  porter's  lodge.  Here 
she  paused  to  consider. 

Late  as  it  was  there  were  lights  in  the 
lodge  and  voices  at  the  door.  Someone 
was  talking  wi^h  the  porter.  Suddenly 
the  voices  ceased  and  a  man  came  walk- 
ing toward  the  place  where  she  stood. 
To  dart  into  the  thick  trees  where  the 


shadow  lay  deepest  was  the  work  of  a 
moment.  She  stood  and  watched.  Hut 
the  underbrush  was  dense,  and  the  crack- 
ling which  she  made  attracted  the  man's 
attention.  He  stopped  for  a  moment, 
and  then  rushed  straight  toward  the 
place  where  she  was. 

Beatrice  gave  herself  up  for  lost.  She 
rushed  on  wildly,  not  knowing  where  she 
went.  Behind  her  was  the  sound  of  her 
pursuer.  He  followed  resolutely  and 
relentlessly.  There  was  no  refuge  for 
her  but  continued  flight. 

Onward  she  sped,  and  still  onward, 
through  the  dense  uni'  brush,  which  at 
every  step  gave  notice  of  the  direction 
which  she  had  taken.  Perhaps  if  she 
had  been  wiser  she  would  have  plunged 
into  some  thick  growth  of  trees  into  the 
midst  of  absolute  darkness  and  there 
remained  still.  As  it  was  she  did  not 
think  of  this.  Escape  was  her  only 
thought,  and  the  only  way  to  this  seemed 
to  bi  by  flight. 

Su  she  fled ;  and  after  her  came  her 
remorseless,  her  unpitying  pursuer.  Fear 
lent  wings  to  her  feet.  She  fled  on 
through  the  underbrush  that  crackled  as 
she  passed  and  gave  notice  of  her  track 
through  the  dark,  dense  groves ;  yet  still 
amid  darkness  and  gloom  her  pursuer 
followed. 

At  last,  through  utter  weakness  and 
weariness,  she  sank  down.  Despair 
came  over  her.    She  could  do  no  more. 

The  pursuer  came  up.  So  dense  was 
the  gloom  in  that  thick  grove  that  for 
some  time  he  could  not  find  her.  Beatrice 
heard  the  crackling  of  the  underbrush  all 
around.    He  was  searching  for  her. 

She  crouched  down  low  and  scarcely 
dared  to  breathe.  She  took  refuge  in  the 
deep  darkness,  and  determined  to  wait 
till  her  pursuer  might  give  up  his  search. 
At  last  all  was  still. 


304 


CORD    AND   CRKKSE 


CI -III 

"••-It* 


Beatrice  thought  that  he  had  gone. 
Yet  in  her  fear  she  waited  for  what  seemed 
to  her  an  interminable  period.  At  last 
she  ventured  to  make  a  movement. 
Slowly  and  cautiously  she  rose  to  her 
feet  and  advanced.  She  did  not  know 
what  direction  to  take ;  but  she  walked 
on,  not  caring  where  she  went  so  long  as 
she  could  escape  pursuit. 

Scarcely  had  she  taken  twenty  steps 
when  she  heard  a  noise.  Someone  was 
moving.  She  stood  still,  breathless. 
Then  she  thought  she  had  been  mis- 
taken. After  waiting  a  long  time  she 
went  on  as  before.  She  walked  faster. 
The  noise  came  again.  It  was  close  by. 
She  stood  still  for  many  minutes. 

Suddenly  she  bounded  up,  and  ran  as 
one  runs  for  life.  Her  long  rest  had  re- 
freshed her.  Despair  gave  her  strength. 
But  the  pursuer  was  on  her  track.  Swift- 
ly, and  still  more  swiftly,  his  footsteps 
came  up  behind  her.  He  was  gaining  on 
her.     Still  she  rushed  on. 

At  last  a  strong  hand  seized  her  by  the 
shoulder,  and  she  sank  down  upon  the 
moss  that  lay  under  the  forest  trees. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  cried  a  familiar  voice. 

"  Vijal !  "  cried  Beatrice. 


The  other  let  go  his  hold. 

"  Will  you  betray  me  ?  "  cried  Beatrice 
in  a  mournful  and  despairing  voice, 

Vijal  was  silent. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  said  he  at  last. 
"Whatever  you  want  to  do  I  will  help 
you.     I  will  be  your  slave." 

"  I  wish  to  escape." 

"  Come,  then — you  shall  escape,"  said 
Vijal. 

W'thout  uttering  another  word  he 
walked  on  and  Beatrice  followed.  Hope 
rose  once  more  within  her.  Hope  gave 
strength.  Despair  and  its  weakness  had 
left  her.  After  about  half  an  hour's  walk 
they  reached  the  park  wall. 

"  I  thought  it  was  a  poacher,"  said 
Vijal  sadly ;  "  yet  I  am  glad  it  was 
you,  for  I  can  help  you.  I  will  help 
you  over  the  wall," 

He  raised  her  up.  She  clambered  to 
the  top,  where  she  rested  for  a  moment. 

"  God  bless  you,  Vijal,  and  good-by  ! " 
said  she. 

Vijal  said  nothing. 

The  next  moment  she  was  on  the 
other  side.  The  road  lay  there.  It  ran 
north  away  from  the  village.  Along  this 
road  Beatrice  walked  swiftly. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 


PICKED     UP     ADRIFT 


On  the  morning  following  two  travellers 
left  a  small  inn  which  lay  on  the  road-side, 
about  ten  miles  north  of  Brandon.  It 
was  about  eight  o'clock  when  they  took 
their  departure,  driving  in  their  own 
carriage  at  a  modeiate  pace  along  the 
road. 


"  Look,  Langhetti,"  said  the  one  who 
was  driving,  pointing  with  his  whip  to  an 
o!>ject  in  the  road  directly  in  front  of 
them. 

Langhetti  raised  his  head,  which  had 
been  bowed  down  in  deep  abstraction,  to 
look  in  the  direction  indicated.    A  figure 


"picked  up  adrift 


205 


was  approaching  them.  It  looked  like  u 
woman.  She  walked  very  slowly,  and 
appeared  rather  to  stagger  thap  to  walk. 

"  She  appears  to  be  drunk,  Despard," 
said  Langhetti.  "  Poor  wretch,  and  on 
tills  bleak  March  morning  too !  Let  us 
stop  and  see  if  we  can  do  anything  for 
her." 

They  drove  on,  and  as  they  met  the 
woman   Despard   stopped. 

She  was  young  and  extraordinarily 
beautiful.  Her  face  was  thin  and  white. 
Her  clothing  was  of  fine  materials,  but 
scanty  and  torn  to  shreds.  As  they 
stopped  she  turned  her  large  eyes  up  de- 
spairingly and  stood  still,  with  a  face 
which  seemed  to  express  every  conceiv- 
able emotion  of  anguish  and  of  hope. 
Yet  as  her  eyes  rested  on  Langhetti  a 
change  came  over  her.  The  deep  and 
unutterable  sadness  of  her  face  passed 
away,  and  was  succeeded  by  a  radiant 
flash  of  joy.  She  threw  out  her  arms 
toward  him  with  a  cry  of  wild  entreaty. 

The  moment  that  Langhetti  saw  her 
he  started  up  and  stood  for  an  instant  as 
if  paralyzed.  Her  cry  came  to  his  ears. 
He  leaped  from  the  carriage  toward  her, 
and  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"  O  Bice !  Alas,  my  Bicina !  "  he 
cried,  and  a  thousand  fond  words  came 
to  his  lips. 

Beatrice  looked  up  with  eyes  filled 
with  grateful  tears ;  her  lips  murmured 
some  inaudible  sentences ;  and  then,  in 
this  full  assurance  of  safety,  the  resolu- 
tion that  had  sustained  her  so  long  gave 
way  altogether.  Her  eyes  closed,  she 
gave  a  low  moan  and  sank  senseless 
upon  his  breast. 

Langhetti  supported  her  for  a  moment, 
then  gently  laid  her  down  to  try  and 
restore  her.  He  chafed  her  hands,  and 
(lid  all  that  is  usually  done  in  such 
emergencies.    But    here    the    case   was 


different — it  was  more  than  a  common 
faint,  and  the  animation  now  suspended 
was  not  to  be  restored  by  ordinary 
efforts. 

langhetti  bowed  over  her  as  he  chafed 
her  hands.  "  Ah,  my  Bicina,"  he  cried  ; 
"  is  it  thus  I  find  you  I  Ah,  poor  thin 
hand !  Alas,  white,  wan  face !  What 
suffering  has  been  yours,  pure  angel, 
among  those  tiends  of  hell ! " 

He  paused,  and  turned  a  face  of  agony 
toward  Despard.  But  as  he  looked  at 
him  he  saw  a  grief  in  his  countenance 
that  was  only  second  to  his  own.  Some- 
thing in  Beatrice's  appearance  had  struck 
him  with  a  deeper  feeling  than  that  merely 
human  interest  which  the  generous  heart 
feels  in  the  sufferings  of  others. 

"  Langhetti,"  said  he,  "  let  us  not  leave 
this  sweet  angel  exposed  to  this  bleak 
wind.  We  must  take  her  back  to  the 
inn.  We  have  gained  our  object.  Alas  I 
the  gain  is  worse  than  a  failure." 

"  What  can  we  do  ?  " 

"  Let  us  put  her  in  the  carriage  be- 
tween us,  and  drive  back  instantly." 

Despard  stooped  as  he  spoke,  raised 
her  reverently  in  his  arms,  and  lifted  her 
upon  the  seat.  He  sprang  in  and  put  his 
arms  around  her  senseless  form,  so  as  to 
support  her  .^gainst  himself.  Langhetti 
looked  on  with  eyes  that  were  moist  with 
a  sad  yet  mysterious  feeling. 

Then  he  resumed  his  place  in  the  car- 
riage. 

"  O  Langhetti !  "  said  Despard,  "  what 
is  it  that  I  saw  in  the  face  of  this  poor 
child  that  so  wrings  my  heart  ?  What 
is  this  mystery  of  yours  that  you  will  not 
tell?" 

"  I  cannot  solve  it,"  said  Langhetti, 
"  and  therefore  I  will  not  tell  it." 

"  Tell  it,  whatever  it  is." 

"  No,  it  is  only  conjecture  as  yet,  and  I 
will  not  uiter  it." 


it 


I    I    ! 


nt 


306 


CORD   AND   CRBESB 


•^Tr 


-^31 


"  And  it  affects  me  ?  " 

"  Deeply." 

"Therefore  tell  it." 

'*  Therefore  I  must  not  tell  it ;  for  if  it 
prove  baseless  I  shall  only  excite  your 
feeling  in  vain." 

"  At  any  rate  let  me  know.  For  I  have 
the  wildest  fancies,  and  I  wish  to  know  if 
it  is  possible  that  they  are  like  your  own." 

"  No,  Despard,"  said  Langhetti.  "  Not 
now.  The  time  may  come,  but  it  has 
not  yet." 

Beatrice's  head  leaned  against  Des- 
pard's  shoulder  as  she  reclined  against 
him,  sustained  by  his  arm.  Her  face  was 
upturned,  a  face  as  white  as  marble,  her 
pure  Grecian  features  showing  now  their 
faultless  lines  like  the  sculptured  face  of 
some  goddess.  Her  beauty  was  perfect 
in  its  classic  outline.  But  her  eyes  were 
closed,  and  her  wan,  white  lips  parted  ; 
and  there  was  sorrow  on  her  face  which 
did  not  seem  appropriate  to  one  so  young. 

"  Look,"  said  Langhetti  in  a  mournful 
voice.  "  Saw  you  ever  in  all  your  life 
anyone  so  perfectly  and  so  faultlessly 
beautiful  ?  Oh,  if  you  could  but  have 
seen  her,  as  I  have  done,  in  her  moods  of 
inspiration,  when  she  sang !  Could  I 
ever  have  imagined  such  a  fate  as  this 
for  her  ? 

"  O  Despard  ! "  he  continued  after  a 
pause,  in  which  the  other  had  turned  his 
stern  face  to  him  without  a  word — "  O 
Despard  you  ask  me  to  tell  you  this 
secret.  1  dare  not.  It  is  so  wide-spread. 
If  my  fancy  be  true,  then  all  your  life 
must  at  once  be  unsettled,  and  all  your 
soul  turned  to  one  dark  purpose.  Never 
will  I  turn  you  to  that  purpose  till  I 
know  the  truth  beyond  the  possibility  of 
a  doubt." 

"  I  saw  that  in  her  face,"  said  Des- 
pard, "  which  I  hardly  dare  acknowledge 
to  myself." 


"  Do  not  acknowledge  it,  then,  I 
implore  you.  Forget  it.  Do  not  open 
up  once  more  that  old  and  now  ulriio  t 
forgotten  sorrow.  Think  not  of  it  even 
to  yourself." 

Langhetti  spoke  with  a  wild  and  vehe- 
ment urgency  which  was  wonderful. 

"  Do  you  not  see," said  Despard,"  that 
you  rouse  my  curiosity  to  an  intolerable 
degree  ? " 

"  Be  it  so ;  at  any  rate  it  is  better  to 
suffer  from  curiosity  than  to  feel  what  you 
must  feel  if  I  told  you  what  I  suspect." 

Had  it  been  any  other  man  than  Lan- 
ghetti, Despard  would  have  been  offended, 
As  it  was  he  said  nothing,  but  began  to 
conjecture  as  to  the  best  course  for  them 
to  follow. 

"  It  is  evident,"  said  he  to  Langhetti, 
"  that  she  has  escaped  from  Brandon 
Hall  during  the  past  night.  She  will,  no 
doubt,  be  pursued.  What  shall  we  do? 
If  we  go  back  to  this  inn  they  will  wond;  r 
at  our  bringing  her.  There  is  another 
inn  a  mile  further  on." 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  that,"  re- 
plied Langhetti.  "  It  will  be  better  to  po 
to  the  other  inn.  But  what  shall  we  say 
about  her?  Let  us  say  she  is  an  invalid 
going  home." 

"  And  am  I  her  medical  attendant  ? " 
asked  Despard. 

"No;  that  is  not  necessary.  You  are 
her  guardian — the  rector  of  Holby,  of 
course — your  name  is  sufficient  guaran- 
tee." 

"  Oh,"  said  Despard  after  a  pause, 
"  I'll  tell  you  something  better  yet.  I  am 
her  brother  and  she  is  my  sister — Miss 
Despard." 

As  he  spoke  he  looked  down  upon  her 
marble  face.  He  did  not  see  Langhetti's 
countenance.  Had  he  done  so  he  would 
have  wondered.  For  Langhetti's  eyes 
seemed  to  seek  to  pierce  the  very  soul  of 


"  PICKED   UP    ADRIFT  " 


ao7 


cal  attendant?" 


Despard.  His  face  became  tninsformcd. 
Its  usual  serenit  anished.nnd  there  was 
L'.ijjer  wonder,  intense  and  ankious  curi- 
osity—an endeavor  to  see  if  there  was  not 
some  deep  meaning  underlying  Despard's 
words.  But  Despard  showed  no  emo- 
tion. He  was  conscious  of  no  deep 
meaning.  He  merely  murmured  to  him- 
self as  he  looked  down  upon  the  uncon- 
scious face  : 
"  My  sick  sister— my  sister  Beatrice." 
Langhetti  said  not  a  word,  but  sat  in 
silence  absorbed  in  one  intense  and  won- 
dering gaze.  Uespard  seemed  to  dwell 
upon  this  idea  fondly  and  tenderly. 

"  She  is  not  one  of  that  brood,"  said 
he  after  a  pause.  "  It  is  in  name  only 
that  she  belongs  to  them." 

"  They  are  fiends  and  she  is  an  angel," 
said  Langhetti. 

"  Heaven  has  sent  her  to  us  ;  we  must 
preserve  her  forever." 

"  If  she  lives,"  said  Langhetti,  "  she 
must  never  go  back." 

"  Go  back ! "  cried  Despard.  "  Better 
far  for  her  to  die." 

"  I  myself  would  die  rather  than  give 
her  up." 

"And  I  too.  But  wr  will  not.  I  will 
adopt  her.  Yes,  she  shall  cast  away  the 
link  that  binds  her  to  these  accursed 
ones— her  vile  name.  I  will  adopt  her. 
She  shall  have  my  name— she  shall  be  my 
sister.    She  shall  be  Beatrice  Despard. 

"  And  surely,"  continued  Despard, 
looking  tenderly  down,  "  surely,  of  all  the 
Despard  race  there  was  never  one  so 
beautiful  and  so  pure  as  she." 

Langhetti  did  not  say  a  word,  but 
looked  at  Despard  and  the  one  whom  he 
thus  called  his  adopted  sister  with  an 
emotion  which  he  could  not  control. 
Tears  started  to  his  eyes  ;  yet  over  his 
brow  there  came  something  which  is  not 
generally  associated  with  tears — a  lofty. 


exultant  expression,  an  air  of  joy    and 
peace. 

"Your  sister,"  said  Despard,  "shall 
ntirse  her  back  to  health.  She  wid  do  so 
for  your  sake,  Langhetti  —or  rather  from 
her  own  noble  and  generous  instincts. 
In  Thornton  Grange  she  will,  perhaps, 
find  some  alleviation  for  the  sorrows 
which  she  may  have  endured.  Our  care 
shall  be  around  her,  and  we  can  all  labor 
together  for  her  future  welfare." 

They  at  length  reached  the  inn  of 
which  they  had  spoken,  and  Beatrice  was 
tenderly  lifted  out  and  carried  upstairs. 
She  was  mentioned  as  the  sister  of  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Despard  of  Holby,  who  was 
bringing  her  back  from  the  seaside, 
whither  she  had  gone  for  her  health. 
Unfortunately,  she  had  been  too  weak 
for  the  journey. 

The  people  of  the  inn  showed  the 
kindest  attention  and  warmest  sympathy. 
A  doctor  was  sent  for,  who  lived  at  a 
village  two  miles  further  on. 

Beatrice  recovered  from  her  faint,  but 
remained  unconscious.  The  doctor  con- 
sidered that  her  brain  was  affected.  He 
shook  his  head  solemnly  over  it,  as 
doctors  always  do  when  they  have 
nothing  in  particular  to  say.  Both  Lan- 
ghetti and  Despard  knew  more  about 
her  case  than  he  did. 

They  saw  that  rest  was  the  one  thing 
needed.  But  rest  could  be  better  at- 
tained in  Holby  than  here ;  and  besides, 
there  was  the  danger  of  pursuit.  It  was 
necessary  to  remove  her ;  and  that,  too, 
without  delay.  A  close  carriage  was 
procured  without  much  difficulty  and  the 
patient  was  deposited  therein. 

A  slow  journey  brought  them  by  easy 
stages  to  Holby.  Beatrice  remained  un- 
conscious. A  nurse  was  procured,  who 
travelled  with  her.  The  condition  of 
Beatrice  was  the  same  w.iich  she  de- 


208 


CORD   AND   CREESE 


ILL 
CC- 


I 


scribed  in  her  diary.  Great  grief  and  ex- 
traordinary suffering  and  excitement  had 
overtasked  the  brain  and  it  had  given  way. 
So  Despard  and  Langhetti  conjectured. 

At  last  they  reached  Holby.  They 
drove  at  once  to  Thornton  Grange. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Thornton, 
who  had  heard  nothing  from  them,  and 


ran  out  upon  the  piazza  to  meet  them  as 
she  saw  them  coming. 

"  I  have  found  Bice,"  said  Langhetti, 
"  and  have  brought  her  here." 

"  Where  is  she  ?  " 

"  There,"  said  Langhetti.  "  I  give  hoi 
to  your  care — it  is  for  you  to  give  iin 
back  to  me." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 


ON  THE  TRACK 


Beatrice's  disappearance  was  known 
at  Brandon  Hall  on  the  following  day. 
The  servants  first  made  the  discovery. 
They  found  her  absent  from  her  room, 
and  no  one  had  seen  her  about  the  house. 
It  was  an  unusual  thing  for  her  to  be  out 
of  the  house  early  in  the  day,  and  of  late, 
for  many  months  she  had  scarcely  ever 
left  her  room,  so  that  now  her  absence  at 
once  excited  suspicion.  The  news  was 
communicated  from  one  to  another  among 
the  servants.  Afraid  of  Potts,  they  did 
not  d;ire  to  tell  him,  but  first  sought  to 
find  her  by  themselves.  They  called 
Mrs.  Compton,  and  the  fear  which  per- 
petually possessed  the  mind  of  this  poor, 
till '(<  creature  now  rose  to  a  positive 
frenzy  of  anxiety  and  dread.  She  told  all 
that  she  knew,  and  that  was  that  she  had 
seen  her  the  evening  before  as  usual,  and 
had  left  her  at  ten  o'clock. 

No  satisfaction  therefore  could  be 
gained  from  her.  The  servants  tried  to 
find  traces  of  her,  but  were  unable.  At 
length  toward  evening,  on  Potts'  return 
from  the  bank,  the  news  was  communi- 
cated to  him. 

The  rage  of  Potts  need  no*  be  described 


here.  That  one  who  had  twice  defied 
should  now  escape  him  filled  him  with 
fury.  He  organized  all  his  servants  into 
bands,  and  they  scoured  the  grounds  till 
darkness  put  an  end  to  these  operations. 

That  evening  Potts  and  his  two  com- 
panions dined  in  moody  silence,  only  con- 
versing by  fits  and  starts. 

"  I  don't  think  she's  killed  herself," 
said  Potts,  in  reply  to  an  observation  of 
Clark.  "  She's  got  stuff  enough  in  her  to 
do  it,  but  I  don't  believe  she  has.  Slie's 
playing  a  deeper  game.  I  only  wish  we 
could  fish  up  her  dead  body  out  of  some 
pond  ;  it  would  quiet  matters  down  very 
considerably." 

"  If  she's  got  off  she's  taken  with  her 
some  secrets  that  won't  do  us  any  good," 
remarked  John. 

"  The  devil  of  it  is,"  said  Potts,  "  we 
don't  know  how  much  she  does  know. 
She  must  know  a  precious  lot,  or  she 
never  would  have  dared  to  say  what  she 
did." 

"  But  how  could  she  get  out  of  the 
park  ?  "  said  Clark.  "  That  wall  is  too 
high  to  climb  over,  and  the  gates  are  all 
locked." 


ON    THE    TRACK 


209 


meet  them  as 

said  Langhetti, 
ire." 

li.    "  I  give  her 
ou  to  give  liLi 


lad  twice  defied 
I  filled  him  with 
his  servants  into 
I  the  grounds  till 
these  operations, 
-id  his  two  coni- 
silence,  only  con- 
killed   herself," 
.n  observation  of 
enough  in  her  to 
eshe  has.     She's 
I  only  wish  we 
body  out  of  some 
latters  down  very 

s  taken  with  her 
do  us  any  good," 


said  Potts,  "  we 

she  does  know. 

cious  lot,  or  she 

to  say  what  she 


1 


i 


,e  get  out  of  the 
That  wall  is  too 
the  gates  are  all 


"  It's  my  opinion,"  exclaimed  John, 
"  that  she's  in  the  grounds  yet." 

Potts  shook  his  head. 

"  After  what  she  told  me  it's  my  belief 
she  can  do  anything.  Why,  didn't  she 
tell  us  of  crimes  that  were  committed 
l)efore  she  was  born?  I  begin  to  feel 
shaky,  and  it  is  the  girl  that  has  made  me 
so. 

Potts  rose  to  his  feet,  plunged  his 
hands  deep  into  his  pockets,  and  walked 
lip  and  down.  The  others  sat  in  gloomy 
silence. 

"Could  that  Hong  Kong  nurse  of 
hers  have  told  her  anything?"  asked 
John. 

"  She  didn't  know  anything  to  tell." 

"  Mrs.  Compton  must  have  blown, 
then." 

"  Mrs.  Compton  didn't  know.  I  tell 
you  that  there  is  not  one  human  being 
living  that  knows  what  she  told  us  be- 
sides ourselves  and  her.  How  the  devil 
she  picked  it  up  I  don't  know." 

"  I  didn't  like  the  cut  of  her  from  the 
first,"  said  John.  "  She  had  a  way  of 
looking  that  made  me  feel  uneasy,  as 
though  there  was  something  in  her  that 
would  some  day  be  dangerous.  I  didn't 
want  you  to  send  for  her." 

"Well,  the  mischief's  done  now." 

"  You're  not  going  to  give  up  the 
search,  are  you  ?  "  asked  Clark. 

"Give  it  up!    Not  I." 

"  We  must  get  her  back." 

"  Yes ;  our  only  safety  now  is  in  catch- 
ing her  again  at  all  hazards." 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

■'  Twenty  years  ago,"  said  Potts  mood- 
ily, "  the  Vishnu  drifted  away,  and  since 
the  time  of  the  trial  no  one  has  mentioned 
it  to  me  till  that  girl  did." 

"  And  she  is  only  twenty  years  old," 
rejoined  John. 

"  I  tell  you,  lads,  you've  got  the  devil 


to  do  with  when  you  tackle  her,"  re- 
marked Clark ;  "  but  if  she  is  the  devil 
we  must  fight  it  out  and  crush  her." 

"  Twenty-three  years,"  coniinued  Potts, 
in  the  same  gloomy  tone — "  twenty-three 
years  have  passed  since  I  was  captured 
with  my  followers.  No  one  has  men- 
tioned that  since.  No  one  in  all  the  world 
knows  that  I  am  the  only  Englishman 
that  ever  joined  the  Thugs,  except  that 
girl." 

"  She  must  know  everything  that  we 
have  done,"  said  Clark. 

"  Of  course  she  must." 

"  Including  our  Brandon  enterprise," 
said  John. 

"  And  including  your  penmanship," 
said  Clark ;  "  enough,  lad,  to  stretch 
a  neck." 

"  Come,"  said  Potts,  "  don't  let  lis  talk 
of  this,  anyhow." 

Again  they  relapsed  into  silence. 

"  Well ! "  exclaimed  John  at  last, 
"  what  are  you  going  to  do  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Chase  her  till  I  find  her,"  replied 
Potts  savagely. 

"  But  where  ?  " 

"  I've  been  thinking  of  a  plan  which 
seems  to  me  to  be  about  the  thing." 

"What?" 

"  A  good  old  plan,"  said  'otts.  "  Your 
pup,  Johnnie,  can  help  us." 

John  pounded  his  fist  on  the  table 
with  savage  exultation. 

"  My  bloodhound  !  Good,  old  Dad, 
what  a  trump  you  are  to  think  of  that ! " 

"  He'll  do  it !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  John,  "  if  he  gets  on  her 
track  and  comes  up  with  her,  I'm  a  little 
afraid  that  we'll  arrive  at  the  spot  just 
too  late  to  save  her.  It's  the  best  way 
that  I  know  of  for  getting  rid  of  the 
difficulty  handsomely.  0/  course  we  are 
going  after  her  through  anxiety,  and 
the  dog  is  an  innocent  pup  who  comes 


.'  i 


2IO 


CORD    AND   CRKESE 


^■-^'^ 

C— ,■-# 

»>ia>        lit 

as:: 

It:- 
or  3 

cc- 

«««^  '•• 


i: 


with  us  ;  and  if  any  disaster  happens  we 
will  kill  him  on  the  spot." 

Potts  shook  his  head  moodily.  He 
had  no  very  hopeful  feeling  about  this. 
He  was  shaken  to  the  soul  at  the  thought 
of  this  stern,  relentless  girl  carrying  out 
into  the  world  his  terrible  secret. 

Early  on  the  following  morning  they 
resumed  their  search  after  the  lost  girl. 
This  time  the  servants  were  not  employed, 
but  the  three  themselves  went  forth  to 
try  what  they  could  do.  With  them  was 
the  "  pup  "  to  which  allusion  had  been 
made  on  the  previous  evening.  This 
animal  was  a  huge  bloodhound,  which 
John  had  purchased  to  take  the  place  of 
his  bulldog,  and  of  which  he  was  extrav- 
agantly proud.  True  to  his  instinct,  the 
hound  understood  from  smelling  an  article 
of  Beatrice's  apparel  what  it  was  that 
he  was  required  to  seek,  and  he  went  off 
on  her  trail  out  through  the  front  door, 
down  the  steps,  and  up  to  the  grove. 

The  others  followed  after.  The  dog 
led  them  down  the  path  toward  the  gate, 
and  thence  into  the  thick  grove  and 
through  the  underbrush.  Scraps  of  her 
dress  still  clung  in  places  to  the  brush- 
wood. The  dog  led  them  round  and 
round  wherever  Beatrice  had  wandered 
in  her  flight  from  Vijal.  They  all  believed 
that  they  would  certainly  find  her  here, 
and  that  she  had  lost  her  way  or  at  least 
tried  to  conceal  herself.  But  at  last,  to 
their  disappointment,  the  dog  turned  away 
out  of  the  wood  and  into  the  path  again. 
Then  he  led  them  along  through  the 
woods  until  In  reached  the  Park  wall. 
Here  the  anim'il  squatted  on  his  haunches, 
and,  lifting  up  his  head,  gave  a  long  deep 
howl. 

"  What's  this  ?  "  said  Potts. 

"  Why,  don't  you  see  ?  She's  got  over 
the  wall  somehow.  All  tiiat  we've  got  to 
do  is  to  put  the  dog  over,  and  follow  on." 


The  others  at  once  understood  that 
this  must  be  the  case.  In  a  short  time 
they  were  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall, 
where  the  dog  found  the  trail  again,  and 
led  on  while  they  followed  as  before. 

They  did  not,  however,  wish  to  seem 
like  pursuers.  That  would  hardly  be  tin; 
thing  in  a  country  of  law  and  order. 
They  chose  to  walk  rather  slowly,  and 
John  held  the  dog  by  a  strap  which  he 
had  brought  with  him.  They  soon  found 
the  walk  much  longer  than  they  had 
anticipated,  and  began  to  regret  that  they 
had  not  come  in  a  carriage.  They  had 
gone  too  far,  however,  to  remedy  this 
now,  so  they  resolved  to  continue  on  their 
way  as  they  were. 

"Gad!"  said  John,  who  felt  fatigued 
first,  "  what  a  walker  she  is  !  " 

"She's  the  devil!"  growled  Clark 
savagely. 

At  last,  after  about  three  hours'  walk, 
the  dog  stopped  at  a  place  by  the  road- 
side, and  sniffed  in  all  directions.  The 
others  watched  him  anxiously  for  a  long 
time.  The  dog  ran  all  around  sniffing  at 
the  ground,  but  to  no  purpose. 

He  had  lost  the  trail.  Again  and  again 
he  tried  to  recover  it.  But  his  blood- 
thirsty instinct  was  completely  at  fault. 
The  trail  had  gone,  and  at  last  the  animal 
came  up  to  his  master  and  crouched  down 
at  his  feet  with  a  low  moan. 

"  Sold  ! "  cried  John  with  a  curse. 

"  What  can  have  become  of  her,"  said 
Potts. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  John.  "  I  dare 
say  she's  got  took  up  in  some  waj;on, 
Yes,  that's  it.  That's  the  reason  why 
the  trail  is  gone." 

"What  shall  we  do  now?  We  can't 
follow.  It  may  have  been  the  coach,  and 
she  may  have  got  a  lift  to  the  nearest 
railway  station." 

"  Well,"  said  John,  "I'll  tell  you  what 


BEATRICE'S   RECOVERY 


211 


lerstood  that 
a  short  time 
e  of  the  wall, 
ail  again,  and 
IS  before, 
wish  to  seem 
I  hardly  be  tlu: 
,w   and  order. 
er  slowly,  and 
itrap  which  he 
iiey  soon  found 
han    they  had 
regret  that  they 
Lge.    They  had 
to  remedy  this 
ontinue  on  their 

ho  felt  fatigued 

:  is! 
growled    Clark 

iree  hours'  walk, 
ace  by  the  road- 
directions.  The 
.iously  for  a  long 
around  sniffing  at 
arpose. 

Again  and  again 
But  his  blood- 
mpletely  at  fault. 

at  last  the  animal 
nd  crouched  down 

loan. 

with  a  curse. 

come  of  her,"  said 

,d  John.    "  I  <l^'e 

in   some  wa^on. 

the  reason  why 

now?  We  can't 
,een  the  coach,  and 
lift   to  the   nearest 

"  I'll  tell  you  what 


we  can  do.  Let  one  of  us  go  to  the  inns 
tliat  are  nearest,  and  ask  if  there  was  a 
girl  ill  the  coach  that  looked  ,like  her,  or 
make  any  enquiries  that  may  be  needed. 
We  cuuld  find  out  that  much  at  any  rate." 

The  others  assented.  John  swore  he 
was  too  tired.  At  length,  after  some 
conversation,  they  all  determined  to  go 
on  and  to  hire  a  carriage  back.  Accord- 
ingly on  they  went,  and  soon  reached  an 
inn. 

Here  they  made  enquiries,  but  could 
learn  nothing  whatever  about  any  girl 
that  had  stopped  there.  Potts  then  hired 
a  carriage  and  drove  off  to  the  next  inn, 
leaving  the  others  behind.  He  returned 
in  about  two  hours.  His  face  bore  an 
expression  of  deep  perplexity. 

"  Well,  what  luck,  dad?  "  asked  John. 

"  There's  the  devil  to  pay,"  growled 
Potts. 

"  Did  you  find  her  ?  " 

"  There  is  a  girl  at  the  next  inn,  and 
it's  her.  Now  what  name  do  you  think 
lliey  call  her  by  ?  " 

"  What  ?  " 


"  Miss  Despard." 

Clark  turned  pale  and  looked  at  John, 
who  gave  a  long,  low  whistle. 

"  Is  she  alone  ?  "  asked  John. 
•  "No — that's  the  worst  of  it.    A  rev- 
evend  gent  is  with  her,  who  has  charge 
of  her,  and  says  he  is  her  brother." 

"Who?" 

"  His  name  is  Courtenay  Despard,  son 
of  Colonel  Lionel  Despard,"  said  Potts. 

The  others  returned  his  look  in  utter 
bewilderment. 

"  I've  been  thinking  and  thinking,"  said 
Potts,  "  but  I  haven't  got  to  the  bottom 
of  it  yet.  We  can't  do  anything  just 
now,  that's  evident.  I  found  out  that 
this  reverend  gent  is  on  his  way  to 
Holby,  where  he  is  rector.  The  only 
thing  left  for  us  to  do  is  to  go  quietly 
home  and  look  about  us." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  this  is  like  the 
beginning  of  one  of  those  monsoon 
storms,"  said  Clark  gloomily. 

The  others  said  nothing.  In  a  short 
time  they  were  on  their  way  back,  moody 
and  silent. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 


BEATRICE  S  RECOVERY 


It  was  not  easy  for  the  overtasked  and 
overworn  powers  of  Beatrice  to  rally. 
Weeks  passed  before  she  opened  her 
eyes  to  a  recognition  of  the  world  around 
her.  It  was  March  when  she  sank  down 
by  the  road-side.  It  was  June  when  she 
began  to  recover  from  the  shock  of  the 
terrible  evcitement  through  which  she 
had  passed. 

Loving  hearts  sympathized  with  her. 


tender  hands  cared  for  her,  vigilant 
eyes  watched  her,  and  all  that  love  and 
care  could  do  were  unremittingly  exerted 
for  her  benefit. 

As  Beatrice  opened  her  eyes  after  her 
long  unconsciousness  she  looked  around 
in  wonder,  recognizing  nothing.  Then 
they  rested  in  equal  wonder  upon  one 
who  stood  by  her  bedside. 

She    was     slender     and     fragile     in 


212 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


at" 


"^5 


form,  with  delicate  features,  whose  fine 
Unes  seemed  rather  like  ideal  beauty 
than  real  life.  The  eyes  were  large, 
dark,  lustrous,  and  filled  with  a  wonder- 
ful but  mournful  beauty.  Yet  all 
the  features,  so  exquisite  in  their 
loveliness,  were  transcended  by  the  ex- 
pression that  dwelt  upon  them.  It  was 
rure,  it  was  spiritual,  it  was  holy.  It 
was  the  face  of  a  saint,  such  a  face  as 
appears  to  the  rapt  devotee  when  fasting 
has  done  its  work,  and  the  quickened 
imagination  grasps  at  ideal  forms  till  the 
dwellers  in  heaven  seem  to  become  visible. 

In  her  confused  mind  Beatrice  at  first 
had  a  faint  fancy  that  she  was  in  another 
state  of  existence,  and  that  the  form  be- 
fore her  was  one  of  those  pure  intelli- 
gences who  had  been  appointed  to  wel- 
come her  there.  Perhaps  there  was 
some  such  thought  visible  upon  her 
face,  for  the  stranger  came  up  to  her 
noiselessly,  and  stooping  down,  kissed 
her. 

"  You  are  among  friends,"  said  she 
in  a  low,  sweet  voice.  "  You  have  been 
sick  long." 

"  Where  am  I  ?  " 

"  Among  loving  friends,"  said  the 
other,  "  far  away  from  the  place  where 
you  suffered." 

Beatrice  sighed. 

"  I  hoped  that  I  had  passed  away  for- 
ever," she  murmured. 

"  Not  yet,  not  yet,"  said  the  stranger, 
in  a  voice  of  tender  yet  mournful  sweet- 
ness, which  had  in  it  an  unfathomable 
depth  of  meaning.  "We  must  wait  on 
here,  dear  friend,  till  it  be  His  will  to  call 

ft 

us. 

"  And  who  are  you  ?  "  asked  Beatrice, 
after  a  long  and  anxious  look  at  the  face 
of  the  speaker. 

"  My  name  is  Edith  Brandon,"  said  the 
other  gently. 


"  Brandon  !— Edith  Brandon  ! "  cried 
Beatrice,  with  a  vehemence  which  con- 
trasted strangely  with  the  scarce  audible 
words  with  which  she  had  just  spoken. 

The  stranger  smiled  with  the  same 
melancholy  sweetness  which  she  had 
shown  before. 

"  Yes,"  said  she ;  "  but  do  not  agitate 
yourself,  dearest." 

"  And  have  you  nursed  ntje  ?  " 

"  Partly.  But  you  are  in  the  house  of 
one  who  is  like  an  angel  in  her  loving  care 
of  you." 

"  But  you — you  ?  "  persisted  Beatrice ; 
"  you  did  not  perish,  then,  as  they  said  ?" 

"No,"  replied  the  stranger;  "it  was 
not  permitted  me." 

"  Thank  God  !  "  murmured  Beatrice 
fervently.  "  He  has  one  sorrow  less. 
Did  Ae  save  you  ?  " 

"  He,"  said  Edith,  "  of  whom  you  speai{ 
does  not  know  that  I  am  alive,  nor  do  1 
know  where  he  is.  Yet  some  day  we 
will  perhaps  meet.  And  now  you  must 
not  speak.  You  will  agitate  yourself  too 
much.  Here  you  have  those  who  love 
you.  For  the  one  who  brought  you  here 
is  one  who  would  lay  down  his  life  for 
yours,  dearest — he  is  Paolo  Langhetti." 

"  Langhetti !  "  said  Beatrice.  "  Oh, 
God  be  thanked ! " 

"  And  she  who  has  taken  you  to  her 
heart  and  home  is  his  sister." 

"  His  sister  Teresa,  of  whom  he  used  to 
speak  so  lovingly  ?  Ah !  God  is  kinder 
to  me  than  I  feared.  Ah,  me !  it  is  as 
though  I  had  died  and  had  awakened  in 
heaven." 

"  But  now  I  will  speak  no  more,  and 
you  must  speak  no  more,  fo«-  you  will 
only  increase  your  agitation.  Rest,  and 
another  time  you  can  ask  what  you  please." 

Edith  turned  away  and  walked  to  one 
of  the  windows,  where  she  looked  out 
pensively  upon  the  sea. 


BEATRICE'S   RECOVERY 


2»3 


indon!"  cried 
ce  which  con- 
!  scarce  audible 
I  just  spoken, 
with  the  same 
vhich    she  had 

t  do  i\ot  agitate 

I  me?" 

in  the  house  of 
n  her  loving  cai  e 

rsisted  Beatrice; 
n, as  they  said?" 
;ranger ;  "  it  was 

irmured  Beatrice 
one  sorrow    less. 

f  whom  you  speak 
im  alive,  nor  do  1 
ret  some  day  we 
id  now  you  must 
gitate  yourself  too 

those  who  love 
brought  you  here 
down  his  life  for 
'aolo  Langhetti." 

Beatrice.    "  Oh, 

taken  you  to  her 
sister." 

whom  he  used  to 
\.h!  God  is  kinder 

Ah,  me !  it  is  as 
1  had  awakened  in 

peak  no  more,  and 
more,  fo.-  you  will 
itation.  Rest,  and 
sk  what  you  please," 
and  walked  to  one 
sre  she  looked  out 
ea, 


From  this  time  Beatrice  began  to  re- 
cover rapidly.  Langhetti's  sister  seemed 
to  her  almost  like  an  old  friend  since  she 
had  been  associated  with  some  of  her 
most  pleasant  memories.  An  atmos- 
phere of  love  was  around  her ;  the  poor 
sufferer  inhaled  the  pure  and  life-giving 
air,  and  strength  came  with  every  breath. 

At  length  she  was  able  to  sit  up,  and 
then  Langhetti  saw  her.  He  greeted  her 
with  all  the  ardent  and  impassioned 
warmth  which  was  so  striking  a  charac- 
teristic of  his  impulsive  and  affectionate 
nature.    Then  she  saw  Despard. 

There  was  something  about  this  man 
which  filled  her  with  indefinable  emo- 
tions. The  knowledge  which  she  had  of 
the  mysterious  fate  of  his  father  did  not 
repel  her  from  him.  A  wonderful  and 
subtle  sympathy  seemed  at  once  to  arise 
between  the  two.  The  stern  face  of 
Despard  assumed  a  softer  and  more 
genial  expression  when  he  saw  her.  His 
tone  was  gentle  and  affectionate,  almost 
paternal. 

What  was  the  feeling  that  arose  within 
her  heart  toward  this  man  ?  With  the 
one  for  her  father  who  had  inflicted  on 
his  father  so  terrible  a  fate,  how  did  she 
dare  to  look  him  in  the  face  or  exchange 
words  with  him  ?  Should  she  not  rather 
shrink  away  as  once  she  shrank  from 
Brandon  ? 

Yet  she  did  not  shrink.  His  presence 
brought  a  strange  peace  and  calm  over 
her  soul.  His  influence  was  more  potent 
over  her  than  that  of  Langhetti.  In  this 
strange  company  he  seemed  to  her  to  be 
the  centre  and  the  chief. 

To  Beatrice  Edith  was  an  impene- 
trable mystery.  Her  whole  manner 
excited  her  deepest  reverence  and  at  the 
same  time  her  strongest  curiosity.  The 
fact  that  she  Was  his  sister  would  of 
itself   have  won  her   heart;    but  there 


were    other    things    about    her    which 
affected  her  strangely. 

Edith  moved  among  the  others  with 
a  strange,  far-off  air,  an  air  at  once  full 
of  gentle  affection,  yet  preoccupied.  Her 
manner  indicated  love,  yet  the  love  of 
one  who  was  far  above  them.  She  was 
like  some  grown  person  associating  with 
young  children  whom  he  loved.  "  Her 
soul  was  like  a  star  and  dwelt  apart." 

Paolo  seemed  more  like  an  equal ;  but 
Paolo  himself  approached  equality  only 
because  he  could  understand  her  best. 
He  alone  could  enter  into  communion 
with  her.  Beatrice  noticed  a  profound 
and  unalterable  reverence  in  his  manner 
toward  Edith,  which  was  like  that  which 
a  son  might  pay  a  mother,  yet  more 
delicate  and  more  chivalrous.  All  this, 
however,  was  beyond  her  comprehen- 
sion. 

She  once  questioned  Mrs.  Thornton, 
but  received  no  satisfaction.  Mrs.  Thorn- 
ton looked  mysterious,  but  shook  her 
head. 

"  Your  brother  treats  her  like  a  divinity." 

"  I  suppose  he  thinks  she  is  something 
more  than  mortal." 

"  Do  you  have  that  awe  of  her  which  I 
feel  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  and  so  does  everyone.  I  feel 
toward  her  as  though  she  belonged  to 
another  world.  She  takes  no  interest  in 
this." 

"  She  nursed  me." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  Every  act  of  love  and  kind- 
ness which  she  can  perform  she  seeks 
out  and  does,  but  now,  as  you  grow  better, 
she  falls  back  upon  herself." 

Surrounded  by  such  friends  as  these 
Beatrice  rapidly  regained  her  strength. 
Weeks  went  on,  and  at  length  she  began 
to  move  about,  to  take  long  rides  and 
drives,  and  to  stroll  through  the  Park. 

During  these  weeks  Paolo  made  known 


214 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


SSI* 


J  * 


to  her  his  plans.     She  embraced   them 
eagerly. 

"You  have  a  mission,"  said  he.  "It 
was  not  for  nothing  that  your  divine  voice 
was  given  to  you.  I  have  written  my 
opera  under  the  most  extraordinary  cir- 
cumstances. You  know  what  it  is.  Never 
have  I  been  able  to  decide  how  it  should 
be  represented.  I  have  prayed  for  a 
Voice.  At  my  time  of  need  you  were 
thrown  in  my  way.  My  Bice,  God  has 
sent  you.    Let  us  labor  together." 

Beatrice  grasped  eagerly  at  this  idea. 
To  be  a  singer,  to  interpret  the  thoughts 
of  Langhetti,  seemed  delightful  to  her. 
She  would  then  be  dependent  on  no 
friend.  She  would  be  her  own  mistress. 
She  would  not  be  forced  to  lead  a  life 
of  idleness,  with  her  heart  preying  upon 
itself.  Music  would  come  to  her  aid.  It 
would  be  at  once  the  purpose,  the  em- 
ployment, and  the  delight  of  her  life.  If 
there  was  one  thing  to  her  which  could 
alleviate  sorrow  and  grief  it  was  the  ex- 
ultant joy  which  was  created  within  her 
by  the  Divine  Art — that  art  which  alone 
is  common  to  earth  and  heaven.  And 
for  Beatrice  there  was  this  joy,  that  she 
had  one  of  those  natures  which  was  so 
sensitive  to  music  that  under  its  power 
heaven  itself  appeared  to  open  before 
her. 

All  these  were  lovers  of  music,  and 
therefore  had  delights  to  which  common 
mortals  are  strangers.  To  the  soul 
which  is  endowed  with  the  capacity  for 
understanding  the  delights  of  tone  there 
are  joys  peculiar,  at  once  pure  and  endur- 
ing, which  nothing  else  that  this  world 
gives  can  equal. 

Langhetti  was  the  high-priest  of  this 
charmed  circle.  Edith  was  the  presiding 
or  inspiring  divinity.  Beatrice  was  the 
medium  of  utterance — the  Voice  thut 
brought  down  heaven  to  earth. 


Mrs.  Thornton  and  Despard  stood 
apart,  the  recipients  of  the  sublime  effects 
and  holy  emotions  which  the  others 
wrought  out  within   them. 

Edith  was  like  the  soul. 

Langhetti  like  the  wind. 

Beatrice  resembled  the  material  ele- 
ment by  which  the  spiritual  is  communi- 
cated to  man.  Hers  was  the  Voice  which 
spoke. 

Langhetti  thought  that  they  as  a  trio 
of  powers  foi  med  a  means  of  communi- 
cating new  revelations  to  man.  It  was 
natural  indeed  that  he  in  his  high  and 
generous  enthusiasm  should  have  some 
such  thoughts  as  these,  and  should  look 
forward  with  delight  to  the  time  when  his 
work  should  first  be  performed.  Editli, 
who  lived  and  moved  in  an  atmosphere 
beyond  human  feeling,  was  above  tlie 
level  of  his  enthusiasm;  but  Beatrice 
caught  it  all,  and  in  her  own  generous 
and  susceptible  nature  this  purpose  of 
Langhetti  produced  the  most  powerful 
effects. 

In  the  church  where  Mrs. Thornton  and 
Despard  had  so  often  met  there  was 
now  a  new  performance.  Here  Lan- 
ghetti played,  Beatrice  sang,  Edith  smiled 
as  she  heard  the  expression  of  heavenly 
ideas,  and  Despard  and  Mrs.  Thornton 
found  themselves  borne  away  from  all 
common  thoughts  by  the  power  of  that 
sublime  rehearsal. 

As  time  passed  and  Beatrice  ^rcvi 
stronger  Langhetti  became  more  impa- 
tient about  his  opera.  The  voice  of  Ika- 
trice,  always  marvellous,  had  not  suffered 
during  her  sickness.  Nay,  if  anything,  it 
had  grown  better ;  her  soul  had  gained 
new  susceptibilities  since  Langhetti  last 
saw  her,  and  since  she  could  understand 
more  and  feel  more,  her  expression  itself 
had  become  more  subtile  and  refined. 
So  that  Voice  which  Langhetti  had  always 


Mm, 


BEATRICE'S   RECOVERY 


"S 


)espard    stood 

sublime  effects 

:h    the    others 

n. 

il. 

d. 

J  material  ele- 

lal  is  communi- 

the  Voice  which 

It  they  as  a  trio 
ns  of  cominuni- 
o  man.     It  was 
in  his  high  and 
lould  have  some 
and  siiould  look 
:he  time  when  his 
irformed.    EiVa'i- 
,n  ar\  atmosphere 
r,  was  above  the 
Im;    but  Beatrice 
her  own  generous 
■e  this  purpose  d 
he  most  powerful 

Mrs.Thornton  and 
n  met  there  was 
bnce.  Here  Lan- 
sang,  Edith  smiled 
ession  of  heavenly 
md  Mrs.  Thornton 
me  away  from  ^'H 
the  power  of  ih;" 

ind  Beatrice  Rrew 
)ecame  more  iniF" 
The  voice  of  Bca- 
)us,  had  not  suffered 

Nay.  if  anything.it 
ler  soul  had  gained 
since  Langhetti  l;ist 
,e  could  understand 

her  expression  ilseli 
subtile  and  refined, 
Langhetti  had  always 


called  divine  had  put  forth  new  powers, 
and  he,  if  he  believed  himself  the  High- 
priest  and  Beatrice  the  Pythian,  saw  that 
lier  inspiration  had  grown  moVe  delicate 
and  more  profound. 

"  We  will  not  set  up  a  new  Delphi," 
said  he.  "  Our  revelations  are  not  new. 
We  but  give  fresh  and  extraordinary  em- 
phasis to  old  and  eternal  truths." 

In  preparing  for  the  great  work  before 
them  it  was  necessary  to  get  a  name  for 
Beatrice.  Her  own  name  was  doubly 
abhorrent — first,  from  her  own  life-long 
hate  of  it  which  later  circumstances 
had  intensified  ;  and,  secondly,  from  the 
damning  effect  which  such  a  name  would 
have  on  the  fortune  of  any  artiste. 
Langhetti  wished  her  to  take  his  name, 
but  Despard  showed  an  extraordinary 
pertinacity  on   this   point. 

"  No,"  said  he,  "  I  am  personally  con- 
cerned in  this.  I  adopted  her.  She  is 
my  sister.  Her  name  is  Despard.  If 
she  takes  any  other  name  I  shall  consider 
it  as  an  intolerable  slight." 

He  expressed  himself  so  strongly  that 
Beatrice  could  not  refuse.  Formei'y  she 
woulvi  have  considered  that  it  was  infa- 
mous for  her  to  take  that  noble  name; 
but  now  this  idea  had  become  weak,  and 
it  was  with  a  strange  exultation  that 
she  yielded  to  the  solicitations  of  Des- 
pard. 

Langhetti  himself  yielded  at  once. 
His  face  bore  an  expression  of  delight 
which  seemed  inexplicable  to  Beatrice. 
She  asked  him  why  he  felt  such  pleasure. 
Was  not  an  Italian  name  better  for  a 
singer?  Despard  was  an  English  name, 
and,  though  aristocratic,  was  not  one 
which  a  great  singer  might  have. 

"I  am  thinking  of  other  things,  my 
Bicina,"  said  Langhetti,  who  had  never 
given  up  his  old,  fond,  fraternal  manner 

toward  her.    "  It  has  no  connection  with 
15 


art.    I  do  not  consider  the  mere  effect  of 
the  name  for  one  moment." 

"  What  is  it,  then,  that  you  do  con- 
sider?" 

"Other  things." 
■"  What  other  things  ?  " 

"  Not  connected  with  art,"  continued 
Langhetti  evasively.  "  I  will  tell  you 
some  day,  when  the  time  comes." 

"  Now  you  are  exciting  my  curiosity," 
said  Beatrice,  in  a  low  and  earnest  tone. 
"  You  do  not  know  what  thoughts  you 
excite  within  me.  Either  you  ought  not 
to  excite  such  ideas,  or  if  you  do,  it  is 
your  duty  to  satisfy  them." 

"  It  is  not  time  yet." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  " 

'*  That  is  a  secret." 

"  Of  course  ;  you  make  it  one  ;  but  if 
it  is  one  connected  with  me,  then  surely  I 
ought  to  know." 

"  It  is  not  time  yet  for  you  to  know." 

"  When  will  it  be  time  ?  " 

"I  cannot  tell." 

"  And  you  will  therefore  keep  it  a  se- 
cret forever  ?  " 

"  I  hope,  my  Bicina,  that  the  time  will 
come  before  long." 

"  Yet  why  do  you  wait,  if  you  know  or 
even  suspect  anything  in  which  I  am  con- 
cerned ?  " 

*'  I  wish  to  spare  you." 

"  That  is  not  necessary.  Am  I  so  weak 
that  I  cannot  bear  to  hear  anything  which 
you  may  have  to  tell  ?  You  forget  what 
a  life  I  have  had  for  two  years.  Such  a 
life  might  well  prepare  me  for  anything." 

'•  If  it  were  merely  something  which 
might  create  sorrow  I  would  tell  it.  I 
believe  that  you  have  a  self-reliant  nature, 
which  has  grown  stronger  through  afflic- 
tion. But  that  which  I  have  to  tell  is 
different.  It  is  of  such  a  character  that 
it  would  of  necessity  destroy  any  peace  of 
I  mind  which  you  have,  and  fill  you  with 


2l6 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


a-* 

«:{ 

■«cr*.. 


hopes  and  feelings  that  could  never  be 
satisfied." 

"  Yet  even  that  I  could  bear.  Do  you 
not  see  that  by  your  very  vagueness  you 
are  exciting  my  thoughts  and  hopes  ? 
You  do  not   know  what   I   know." 

"  What  do  you  know  ?  "  asked  Lan- 
ghetti  eagerly. 

Beatrice  hesitated.  No;  she  could 
not  tell.  That  would  be  to  tell  all  the 
holiest  secrets  of  her  heart.  For  she 
must  then  tell  about  Brandon,  and  the 
African  island,  and  the  manuscript  which 
he  carried  and  which  had  been  taken 
from  his  bosom.  Of  this  she  dared  not 
speak. 

She  was  silent. 

"You  cannot   know  anything,"    said 


Langhetti.  *'  You  may  suspect  much.  I 
only  have  suspicions.  Yet  it  would  not 
be  wise  to  communicate  these  to  you, 
since  they  would  prove  idle  and  without 
result." 

So  the  conversation  ended,  and  Lan- 
ghetti still  maintained  his  secret,  though 
Beatrice  hoped  to  find  it  out. 

At  length  she  was  sufficiently  recovered 
to  be  able  to  begin  the  work  to  which 
Langhetti  wished  to  lead  her.  It  was 
August,  and  Langhetti  was  impatient  to 
be  gone.  So  when  August  began  he 
made  preparations  to  depart,  and  in  a  few 
days  they  were  in  London.  Edith  was 
left  with  Mrs.  Thornton.  Beatrice  had 
an  attendant  who  went  with  her,  half 
chaperon,  half  lady's  maid. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI 


THE    AFFAIRS  OF  SMITHERS  &  CO. 


For  more  than  a  year  the  vast  opera- 
tions of  Smithers  &  Co.  had  astonished 
business  circles  in  London.  Formerly 
they  had  been  considered  as  an  eminently 
respectable  house,  and  as  doing  a  safe 
business ;  but  of  late  all  this  had  been 
changed  in  so  sudden  and  wonderful  a 
manner  that  no  one  could  account  for  it. 
Leaving  aside  their  old  cautious  policy, 
they  undertook  without  hesitation  the 
largest  enterprises.  Foreign  railroads, 
national  loans,  vast  joint-stock  com- 
panies— these  were  the  things  that  now 
occupied  Smithers  &  Co.  The  Barings 
themselves  were  outrivalled,  and  Smithers 
&  Co.  reached  the  acme  of  their  sudden 
glory  on  one  occasion,  when  they  took 
the  new  Spanish  loan  out  of  the  grasp  of 
even  the  Rothschilds  themselves. 


How  to  account  for  it  became  the 
problem.  For,  allowing  the  largest  pos- 
sible success  in  their  former  business  to 
Smithers  &  Co.,  that  business  had  never 
been  of  sufficient  dimensions  to  allow  of 
this.  Some  said  that  a  rich  Indian  had 
become  a  sleeping  partner,  others  declared 
that  the  real  Smithers  was  no  more  to  be 
seen,  and  that  the  business  was  managed 
by  strangers  who  had  bought  them  out 
and  retained  their  name.  Others  again 
said  that  Smithers  &  Co.  had  made  large 
amounts  in  California  .nining  specula- 
tions. At  length  the  ^^neral  belief  was 
that  some  individuals  who  had  made 
millions  of  money  in  California  had 
bought  out  Smithers  &  Co.,  and  were 
now  doing  business  under  their  name, 

As  to  their  soundness  there  was  no 


THE    AFFAIRS   OF   SMITHERS   &    CO. 


2tJ 


pect  much.    1 

it  would  not 

these  to  you, 

e  and  without 

ided,  and  Lan- 
secret,  though 

ut. 

ently  recovered 
work  to  whicli 
:\  her.     It  was 
as  impatient  to 
gust  began  he 
art,  and  in  a  few 
on.     Edith  was 
Beatrice  had 
with  her,  half 
laid. 


•   it   became  the 
T  the  largest  pos- 
jrmer  business  to 
usiness  had  never 
nsions  to  allow  of 
a  rich  Indian  had 
ler,  others  declared 
was  no  more  to  be 
ness  was  managed 
bought  them  out 
me.     Others  a^ain 
:o.  had  made  large 
mining   specula- 
^.neral  belief  was 
Is  who  had  made 
in    California   had 
&  Co.,  and  were 
under  their  name. 
ness  there  was  no 


question.  Their  operations  were  such  as 
demanded,  first  of  all,  ready  money  in 
unlimited  quantities.  This  they  were 
always  able  to  command.  Between  them 
and  the  Bank  of  England  there  seemed 
to  be  the  most  perfect  understanding 
and  the  most  enviable  confidence.  The 
Rothschilds  spoke  of  them  with  infinite 
respect.  People  began  to  look  upon 
them  as  the  leading  house  in  Europe. 
The  sudden  apparition  of  this  tremendous 
power  in  the  commercial  world  threw 
that  world  into  a  state  of  consternation 
which  finally  ended  in  wondering  awe. 

But  Smithers  &  Co.  continued  calmly, 
yet  successfully,  their  great  enterprises. 
The  Russian  loan  of  fifteen  millions  was 
negotiated  by  them.  They  took  twenty 
millions  of  the  French  loan,  five  millions 
of  the  Austrian,  and  two  and  a  half  of 
the  Turkish.  They  took  nearly  all  the 
stock  of  the  Lyons  and  Marseilles  Rail- 
road. They  owned  a  large  portion  of 
the  stock  of  the  Peninsular  and  Oriental 
Steam  Navigation  Company.  They  had 
ten  millions  of  East  India  stock.  Cali- 
fornia alone,  which  was  now  dazzling  the 
world,  could  account  to  the  common 
mind  for  such  enormous  wealth. 

The  strangest  thing  was  that  Smithers 
himself  was  never  seen.  The  business 
was  done  by  his  subordinates.  There 
was  a  young  man  who  represented  the 
house  in  public,  and  who  called  himself 
Henderson.  He  was  a  person  of  distin- 
guished aspect,  yet  of  reserved  and  some- 
what melancholy  manner.  No  one  pre- 
tended to  be  in  his  confidence.  No  one 
pretended  to  know  whether  he  was  clerk 
or  partner.  As  he  was  the  only  repre- 
sentative of  Smithers  &  Co.,  he  was 
treated  with  marked  respect  wherever  he 
appeared. 

The  young  man,  whether  partner  or 
clerk,  had  evidently  the  supreme  control 


of  affairs.  He  swayed  in  his  own  hands 
the  thunderbolts  of  this  Olympian 
power.  Nothing  daunted  him.  The 
grandeur  of  his  enterprises  dazzled  the 
public  mind.  His  calm  antagonism  to 
the  great  houses  of  London  filled  them 
with  surprise.  A  new  power  had  seized 
a  high  place  in  the  commercial  world, 
and  the  old  gods— the  Rothschilds,  the 
Barings,  and  others — looked  aghast. 
At  first  they  tried  to  despise  this  inter- 
loper ;  at  length  they  found  him  at  least 
as  strong  as  themselves,  and  began  to 
fancy  that  he  might  be  stronger.  A  few 
experiments  soon  taught  them  that  there 
was  no  weakness  there.  On  one  occa- 
sion the  Rothschilds,  true  to  their  ordi- 
nary selfish  policy,  made  a  desperate 
attempt  to  crush  the  new  house  which 
dared  to  enter  into  rivalry  with  them. 
Widespread  plans  were  arranged  in  such 
a  way  that  large  demands  were  made 
upon  them  on  one  day.  The  amount 
was  nearly  two  millions.  Smithers  & 
Co.  showed  not  the  slightest  hesitation. 
Henderson,  their  representative,  did  not 
even  take  the  trouble  to  confer  with  the 
Bank  of  England.  He  sent  his  orders  to 
the  Bank.  The  money  was  furnished. 
It  was  the  directors  of  the  Bank  of  Eng- 
land who  looked  aghast  at  this  struggle 
between  Rothschild  and  Smithers  &  Co. 
The  gold  in  the  Bank  vaults  sank  low, 
and  the  next  day  the  rates  of  discount 
were  raised.  All  London  felt  the  result 
of  that  struggle. 

Smithers  &  Co.  waited  for  a  few 
months,  and  then  suddenly  retorted  with 
terrific  force.  The  obligations  of  the 
Rothschilds  were  obtained  from  all 
quarters — some  which  were  due  were 
held  over  and  not  presented  till  the  ap- 
pointed day.  Obligations  in  many 
forms — in  all  the  forms  of  indebtedness 
that   may  arise  in  a  vast  business — all 


3l8 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


a** 
--» 

■«:-];- 

■»»»,  •■1 
"—"Sim 


;«■'     :.< 


these  had  been  collected  from  various 
quarters  with  untiring  industry  and  extra- 
ordinary outlay  of  care  and  money.  At 
last  in  one  day  they  were  all  poured  upon 
the  Rothschilds.  Nearly  four  millions 
of  money  were  required  to  meet  that 
demand. 

The  great  house  of  Rothschild  reeled 
under  the  blow.  Smithers  &  Co.  were 
the  ones  who  administered  it.  James 
Rothschild  had  a  private  interview  with 
the  directors  of  the  Bank  of  England. 
There  was  a  sudden  and  enormous  sale 
of  securities  that  day  on  'Change.  In 
selling  out  such  large  amounts  the  loss 
was  enormous.  It  was  difficult  to  find 
purchasers,  but  Smithers  &  Co.  stepped 
forward  and  bought  nearly  all  that  was 
offered.  The  Rothschilds  saved  them- 
selves, of  course,  but  at  a  terrible  loss, 
which  became  the  profits  of  Smithers  & 
Co. 

The  Rothschilds  retreated  from  the 
conflict  utterly  routsd,  and  glad  to  escape 
disaster  of  a  worse  kind.  Smithers  & 
Co.  came  forth  victorious.  They  had 
beaten  the  Rothschilds  at  their  own  game, 
and  had  made  at  least  half  a  million. 
All  London  rang  with  the  story.  It  was 
a  bitter  humiliation  for  that  proud  Jew- 
ish house  which  for  years  had  never  met 
with  a  rival.  Yet  there  was  no  help,  nor 
was  there  the  slightest  chance  of  revenge. 
They  were  forced  to  swallow  the  result 
as  best  they  could,  and  to  try  to  regain 
what  they  had  lost. 

After  this  the  pale  and  melancholy 
face  of  Henderson  excited  a  deeper  inter- 
est. This  was  the  man  who  had  beaten 
the  Rothschilds — the  strongest  capitalist 
in  the  world.  In  his  financial  operations 
he  continued  as  calm,  as  grave,  and  as 
immovable  as  ever.  He  would  risk  mill- 
ions without  moving  a  muscle  of  his 
countenance.    Yet  so  sagacious  was  he, 


so  wide-spread  were  his  agencies,  so 
accurate  was  his  secret  information,  that 
his  plans  scarcely  ever  failed.  His  capi- 
tal  was  so  vast  that  it  often  gave  him 
control  of  the  market.  Coming  into  the 
field  untrammelled  as  the  older  houses 
were,  he  had  a  larger  control  of  money 
than  any  of  them,  and  far  greater  free- 
dom of  action. 

After  a  time  the  Rothschilds,  the  Bar- 
ings, and  other  great  bankers  began  to 
learn  that  Smithers  &  Co.  had  vast  funds 
everywhere,  in  all  the  capitals  of  Europe, 
and  in  America.  Even  in  the  West 
Indies  their  operations  were  extensive. 
Their  old  Australian  agency  was  enlarged, 
and  a  new  banking  house  founded  by 
them  in  Calcutta  began  to  act  on  the  same 
vast  scale  as  the  leading  house  at  Lon- 
don. Smithers  &  Co.  also  continued  to 
carry  on  a  policy  which  was  hostile  to 
those  older  bankers.  The  Rothschilds 
in  particular  felt  this,  and  were  in  per- 
petual dread  of  a  renewal  of  that  tre- 
mendous assault  under  which  they  had 
once  nearly  gone  down.  They  became 
timid,  and  were  compelled  to  arrange 
their  business  so  as  to  guard  against  this 
possibility.  This,  of  course,  checked  their 
operations,  and  widened  and  enlarged 
the  field  of  action  for  their  rivals. 

No  one  knew  anything  whatever  about 
Henderson.  None  of  the  clerks  could 
tell  anything  concerning  him.  They  were 
all  new  hands.  None  of  them  had  ever 
seen  Smithers.  They  all  believed  that 
Henderson  was  the  junior  partner,  and 
that  the  senior  spent  his  time  abroad. 
From  this  it  began  to  be  believed  tiiat 
Smithers  stayed  in  California  digging 
gold,  which  he  diligently  remitted  to  the 
London  house. 

At  length  the  clerks  began  to  speak 
mysteriously  of  a  man  who  came  from 
time  to  time  to  the  office,  and  whose 


1  :!•  '  :  ','ii|lffi> 


THE    AFFAIRS   OF   SMITHERS   &    CO. 


319 


lis  agencies,  so 
nformation,  that 
tiled.  His  capi- 
often  gave  him 
Coming  into  the 
the  older  houses 
ontrol  of  money 
far  greater  free- 

lischilds,  the  Bar- 
jankers  began  to 
:o.  had  vast  funds 
apitals  of  Europe, 
;n  in  the  West 
s  were  extensive, 
ency  was  enlarged, 
louse  founded  l)y 
to  act  on  the  same 
ing  house  at  Lon- 

also  continued  to 
ch  was  hostile  to 

The  Rothschilds 

and  were  in  per- 
nevval  of  that  tie- 
er  which  they  had 
wn.    They  became 
npelled  to  arrange 
3  guard  against  tliis 
:ourse,  checked  their 
ened  and    enlarged 
•  their  rivals, 
ling  whatever  about 
of  the  clerks  could 
ling  him.  They  were 
le  of  them  had  ever 
ey  all  believed  that 

junior  partner,  and 
nt  his  time  abroad, 

to  be  believed  that 

California    digging 

;ently  remitted  to  the 

erks  began  to  speak 
nan  who  came  from 
he  office,  and  whose 


whole  manner  showed  him  to  possess 
authority  there.  The  treatment  which  he 
received  from  Henderson — at  once  cordial 
and  affectionate — showed  them  to  be 
most  intimate  and  friendly ;  and  from 
words  which  were  dropped  they  all 
thought  him  to  be  the  senior  partner. 
Yet  he  appeared  to  be  very  little  older 
than  Henderson,  if  as  old,  and  no  one 
even  knew  his  name.  If  anything  could 
add  to  the  interest  with  which  the  house 
of  Smithers  &  Co.  was  regarded  it  was 
this  impenetrable  mystery,  which  baffled 
not  merely  outsiders  but  even  the  clerks 
themselves. 

Shortly  after  the  departure  of  Langhetti 
and  Beatrice  from  Holby  two  men  were 
seated  in  the  inner  parlor  of  the  office 
of  Smithers  &  Co.  Cne  was  the  man 
known  as  Henderson,  the  other  the 
mysterious  senior  partner. 

They  had  just  come  in  and  letters  were 
lying  on  the  table. 

"  You've  got  a  large  number  this  morn- 
ing, Frank  ?  "  said  the  senior  partner. 

"  Yes,"  said  Frank,  turning  them  over  ; 
"  and  here,  Louis,  is  one  for  you."  He 
took  out  a  letter  from  the  pile  and  handed 
it  to  Louis.  "  It's  from  your  Brandon 
Hall  correspondent,"  he  added. 

Louis  sat  down  and  opened  it.  The 
let'.er  was  as  follows  : 

"  Augitst  15,  1849. 
"Dear  Sir:  I  have  had  nothing  in 
partirnlar  to  write  since  the  flight  of  Miss 
Potts,  except  to  tell  you  what  they  were 
doing.  I  have  already  informed  you  that 
they  kept  three  spies  at  Holby  to  watch 
her.  One  of  these  returned,  as  I  told  you 
in  my  last  letter,  with  the  information 
that  she  had  gone  to  London  with  a 
party  named  Langhetti.  Ever  since  then 
they  have  been  talking  it  over,  and  have 
come  to  the  conclusion  to  get  a  detective. 


and  keep  him  busy  watching  her  with  the 
idea  of  getting  her  back,  I  think.  I  hope 
to  God  they  will  not  get  her  back.  If  you 
take  any  interest  in  her,  sir,  as  you  appear 
to-do,  I  hope  you  will  use  your  powerful 
arm  to  save  her.  It  will  be  terrible  if  she 
has  to  come  back  here.  She  will  die,  I 
know.  Hoping  soon  to  have  something 
more  to  communicate, 

"  I  remain,  yours  respectfully, 

"  E.  L. 
"  Mr.  Smithers,  Sen.,  London." 

Louis  read  this  letter  over  several 
times  and  fell  into  deep  thought. 

Frank  went  on  reading  his  letters, 
looking  up  from  time  to  time.  At  last 
he  put  down  the  last  one. 

"  Louis ! "  said  he. 

Louis  looked  up. 

"  You  came  so  late  last  night  that  I 
haven't  had  a  chance  to  speak  about  any- 
thing yet.  I  want  to  tell  you  something 
very  important." 

"Well?" 

"  Langhetti  is  alive." 

"  I  know  it." 

"You  knew  it!  When?  Why  did 
you  not  tell  me?" 

"I  didn't  want  to  tell  anything  that 
might  distract  you  from  your  purpose." 

"  I  am  not  a  child,  Louis !  After  my 
victory  over  Rothschild  I  ought  to  be 
worthy  of  your  confidence." 

"That's  not  the  point,  Frank,"  said 
Louis ;  "  but  I  know  your  affection  for 
the  man,  and  I  thought  you  would  give 
up  all  to  find  him." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"Well,  I  thought  it  would  be  better 
to  let  nothing  interpose  now  between  us 
and  our  purpose.  No,"  he  continued, 
with  a  stern  tone,  "  no — no  one,  however 
dear,  however  loved — and  therefore  I  said 
nothing    about    Langhetti.      I    thought 


aao 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


a-* 

a-* 


that  your  generous  heart  would  only  be 
distressed.  You  would  feel  like  giving 
up  everything  to  find  him  out  and  see 
hin>,  and,  therefore,  I  did  not  wish  you 
even  to  know  it.  Yet  1  have  kept  an 
account  of  his  movements,  and  know 
where   he   is   now." 

"  He  is  here  in  London,"  said  Frank, 
with  deep  emotion. 

"  Yes,  thank  God  ! "  said  Louis.  "  You 
will  see  him,  and  we  all  will  be  able  to 
meet  some  day." 

"  But,"  asked  Frank,  "  do  you  not 
think  Langhetti  is  a  man  to  be 
trusted  ?  " 

"  That's  not  the  point,"  replied  Louis. 
"  I  believe  Langhetti  is  one  of  the  noblest 
men  that  ever  lived.  It  must  be  so  from 
what  I  have  heard.  All  my  life  I  will 
cherish  his  name  and  try  to  assist  him 
in  every  possible  way.  I  believe  also 
that,  if  we  requested  it,  he  might  perhaps 
keep  our  secret.  But  that  is  not  the 
point,  Frank.  This  is  the  way  I  look 
at  it :  We  are  dead.  Our  deaths  have 
been  recorded.  Louis  Brandon  and 
Frank  Brandon  have  perished.  I  am 
Wheeler,  or  Smithers,  or  Forsyth,  or 
anybody  else  ;  you  are  Henderson.  We 
keep  our  secret  because  we  have  a  pur- 
pose before  us.  Our  father  calls  us  from 
his  tomb  to  its  accomplishment.  Our 
mother  summons  us.  Our  sweet  sister 
Edith,  from  her  grave  of  horror  unutter- 
able, calls  us.  All  personal  feeling  must 
stand  aside,  Frank — yours  and  mine — 
whatever  they  be,  till  we  have  done  our 
duty." 

"  You  are  right,  Louis,"  said  Frank 
sternly. 

"  Langhetti  is  in  London,"  continued 
Louis.  "  You  will  not  see  him,  but  you 
can  show  your  gratitude,  and  so  can  L 
He  is  going  to  hire  an  opera  house  to 
bring  out  an  opera ;  I  saw  that  in  the 


papers.  It  is  a  thing  full  of  risk,  but  he 
perhaps  does  not  think  of  that.  Let  us 
enable  him  to  gain  the  desire  of  his  heart, 
Let  us  fill  the  house  for  him.  You  can 
send  your  agents  to  furnish  tickets  to 
people  who  may  make  the  audience ;  or 
you  can  send  around  those  who  can 
praise  him  sufficiently.  I  don't  know 
what  his  opera  may  be  worth.  I  know, 
however,  from  what  I  have  learned,  that 
he  has  musical  genius  ;  and  I  think  if  wc 
give  him  a  good  start  he  will  succeed. 
That  is  the  way  to  show  your  gratitude, 
Frank." 

"  I'll  arrange  all  that,"  said  Frank. 
"  The  house  shall  be  crowded.  I'll  stud 
an  agent  to  him — I  can  easily  find  out 
where  he  lives,  I  suppose — and  make  iiim 
an  offer  of  Covent  Garden  theatre  on  his 
own  terms.  Yes,  Langhetti  shall  have  a 
fair  chance.  I'll  arrange  a  plan  to  en- 
force success." 

"  Do  so,  and  you  will  keep  him  per- 
manently in  London  till  the  time  comes 
when  we  can  arise  from  the  dead." 

They  were  silent  for  a  long  time. 
Louis  had  thoughts  of  his  own,  excited 
by  the  letter  which  he  had  received,  and 
these  thoughts  he  did  not  care  to  utter. 
One  thing  was  a  secret  even  from  Frank. 

And  what  could  he  do  ?  That  Ik  .  ice 
had  fallen  among  friends  he  well  knew. 
He  had  found  this  out  when,  after  re- 
ceiving a  letter  from  Philips  about  her 
flight,  he  had  hurried  there  and  learned 
the  result.  Then  he  had  himself  gone  to 
Holby  and  found  that  she  was  at  Mrs. 
Thornton's.  He  had  watched  till  she 
had  recovered.  He  had  seen  her  as  slie 
took  a  drive  in  Thornton's  carriage.  He 
had  left  an  agent  there  to  v.  rite  him  about 
her  when  she  left. 

What  was  he  to  do  now  ?  He  read 
the  letter  over  again.  He  paused  at  that 
sentence:   "They  have  been  talking  it 


THE    AFFAIRS  OF    SMITHERS   &    CO. 


aai 


of  risk,  but  he 
if  that.  Let  us 
sire  of  his  heart, 
him.  You  can 
rnish  tickets  to 
le  audience ;  or 
those  who  can 
I  don't  know 
worth.  I  know, 
ive  learned,  that 
ind  I  think  if  wc 
he  will  succeed. 
r  your  gratitude, 

it,"  said  Frank. 
)wded.  I'll  send 
\  easily  find  out 
»— and  make  liim 
en  theatre  on  his 
lietti  shall  have  a 
ge  a  plan  to  cn- 

ill  keep  him  pcr- 
1  the  time  coi\ics 

the  dead." 
t)r    a    long    time. 

his  own,  excited 
had  received,  and 
not  care  to  utter. 
even  from  Frank. 
o?  That  Ik  .Ice 
ds  he  well  knew. 
Lit  when,  after  re- 
Philips  about  her 
there  and  learned 
ad  himself  gone  to 
.  she  was  at  Mrs. 

watched  till  she 
id  seen  her  as  she 
en's  carriage.    He 

to  v.rite  him  about 

)  now?    He  read 

He  paused  at  that 

re  been  talking  it 


over,  and  have  come  to  the  conclusion  to 
get  a  detective,  and  keep  him  busy  watch- 
ing her  with  the  idea  of  getting  her 
hack." 

What  was  the  nature  of  this  danger  ? 
Ikatrice  was  of  age.  She  was  with  Lan- 
j^hetti.  She  was  her  own  mistress.  CouUl 
there  be  any  danger  of  her  being  taken 
hack  against  her  will?  The  villains  at 
Hrandon  Hall  were  sufficiently  unscrupu- 
lous, but  would  they  dare  to  commit  any 
violence  ?  and  if  they  did  would  not  Lan- 
ghetti's  protection  save  her? 

Such  were  his  thoughts.  Yet,  on  the 
other  hand,  he  considered  the  fact  that 
she  was  inexperienced,  and  might  have 
peculiar  ideas  about  a  father's  authority. 
If  Potts  came  himself,  demanding  her 
return,  perhaps,  out  of  a  mistaken  sense 
of  filial  duty,  she  might  go  with  him.  Or, 
even  if  she  was  unwilling  to  do  so,  she 
might  yield  to  coercion,  and  not  feel  jus- 
tified in  resisting.  The  possibility  of  this 
tilled  him  with  horror.  The  idea  of  her 
heing  taken  back  to  live  under  the  power 
of  those  miscreants  from  whom  she  had 
escaped  was  intolerable.  Yet  he  knew 
not  what  to  do. 

Between  him  and  her  there  was  a  gulf 
unfathomable,  impassable.  She  was  one 
of  that  accursed  brood  which  he  was 
seeking  to  exterminate.  He  would  spare 
her  if  possible ;  he  would  gladly  lay  down 
his  life  to  save  her  from  one  moment's 
misery;  but  if  she  stood  in  the  way  of 
his  vengeance,  could  he — dared  he  stay 
that  vengeance?  For  that  he  would 
sacrifice  life  itself!  Would  he  refuse 
to  sacrifice  even  /ler,  if  she  were  more 
dear  than  life  itself? 

Yet  here  was  a  case  in  which  she  was 
no  longer  connected  with,  but  striving 
to  sever  herself  from  them.  She  was 
flying  from  that  accursed  father  of  hers. 
Would  he  stand  idly  by,  and  see  her  in 


danger  ?  That  were  impossible.  All 
along,  ever  since  his  return  to  liiiglaiul, 
he  had  watched  over  her,  unseen  himself 
and  unsuspected  by  her,  and  had  fol- 
lywed  her  footsteps  when  she  fled.  To 
desert  her  now  was  impossible.  The 
only  question  with  him  was — how  to 
watch  her  or  guard  her. 

One  thing  gave  him  comfort,  and  that 
was  the  guardianship  of  Langhetti. 
This  he  thought  was  sufficient  to  ensure 
her  safety.  For  surely  Langhetti  would 
know  the  character  of  her  enemies  as 
well  as  Beatrice  herself,  and  so  guard 
her  as  to  ensure  her  safety  from  any 
attempt  of  theirs.  He  therefore  placed 
his  chief  reliance  on  Langhetti,  and 
determined  merely  to  secure  someone 
who  would  watch  over  her,  and  let  him 
know  from  day  to  day  how  she  fared. 
Had  he  thought  it  necessary,  he  would 
have  sent  a  band  of  men  to  watch  and 
guard  her  by  day  and  night ;  but  this 
idea  never  entered  his  mind  for  the 
simple  reason  that  he  did  not  think  the 
danger  was  pressing.  England  was 
after  all  a  country  of  law,  and  even  a 
father  could  not  carry  off  his  daughter 
against  her  will  when  she  was  of  age. 
So  he  comforted  himself. 

"  Well,"  said  he  at  last,  rousing  him- 
self from  his  abstraction,  "  how  is  Potts 
now?" 

"  Deeper  than  ever,"  answered  Frank 
quietly. 

"  The  Brandon  Bank " 

"  The  Brandon  Bank  has  been  going  at 
a  rate  that  would  have  foundered  any 
other  concern  long  ago.  There's  not  a 
man  that  I  sent  there  who  has  not  been 
welcomed  and  obtained  all  that  he 
wanted.  Most  of  the  money  that  they 
advanced  has  been  to  men  that  I  sent. 
They  drew  on  us  for  the  money  and  sent 
us  various  securities  of  their  own,  hold- 


333 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


> 


w:5 


ing  the  securities  of  these  applicants.  It 
is  simply  bewildering  to  think  how  easily 
that  scoundrel  fell  into  the  snare." 

"When  a  man  has  made  a  fortune 
easily  he  gets  rid  of  it  easily,"  said  Louis 
laconically. 

"Potts  thinks  that  all  his  applicants 
are  leading  men  of  the  county.  I  take 
good  care  that  they  go  there  as  baronets 
at  least.  Some  are  lords.  He  is  over- 
powered in  the  presence  of  these  lords, 
and  gives  them  what  ihey  ask  on  their 
own  terms.  In  his  letters  he  has  made 
some  attempts  at  an  expression  of  grati- 
tude for  our  great  liberality.  This  I  en- 
joyed somewhat.  The  villain  is  not  a 
difficult  one  to  manage,  at  least  in  the 
financial  way.  I  leave  the  denouement 
to  you,  Louis." 

'  The  denouement  must  not  be  long 
delayed  now." 

"Well,  for  that  matter  things  are  so 
arran^jed  that  we  may  have  '  the  begin- 
ning of  the  end  '  as  soon  as  you  choose." 

"  What  are  the  debts  of  the  Brandon 
jBanIc  to  us  now  ?  " 

"  Five  hundred  and  fifteen  thousand 
one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds,"  said 
Frank. 

"  Five  hundred  thousand — very  good," 
rett'rned  Louis  thoughtfully.  "  And  how 
is  t  je  sum  secured  ?  " 

"Chiefly  by  acknowledgments  from 
th  :  bank  with  the  indorsement  of  John 
VoA:,  President." 

"  What  are  the  other  liabilities  ?  " 

"  He  i:as  implored  me  to  purchase  for 
him  or  sell  him  some  California  stock. 
I  have  relucfa':tly  consented  to  io  so," 
continued  Frank,  with  a  sardonic  smile, 
"  entirely  through  the  request  of  my 
senior,  and  he  has  taken  a  hundred 
shares  at  a  thousand  pounds  each." 

"  One  hundred  t'lousand  pounds,"  said 
Louis. 


"  I  consented  to  take  his  notes,"  con- 
tinued Frank,  "purely  out  of  regard  to 
the  recommendations  of  my  senior." 

"  Anything  else?  "asked  Louis. 

"  He  urged  me  to  recommend  him 
to  a  good  broker  who  might  purchase 
stock  for  him  in  reliable  companies.  1 
created  a  broker  and  recommended  liiin. 
He  asked  me  also  confidentially  to  tell 
him  which  stock  were  best,  so  I  kindly 
advised  him  to  purchase  the  Mexican 
and  the  Guatemala  loan.  I  also  recom- 
mended the  Venezuela  bonds.  I  threw 
all  these  into  the  market,  and  by  dextrous 
manipulation  raised  the  price  to  three  per 
cent,  premium.  He  paid  ;£i03  for  every 
;^ioo.  When  iie  wants  to  sell  out,  as 
he  may  one  day  wish  to  do,  he  will  be 
lucky  if  he  gets  thirty-five  per  cent." 

"  How  much  did  he  buy  ?  " 

"  Mexican  loan,  fifty  thousand  ;  Guate- 
mala, fifty  thousand ;  and  Venezuela 
bonds,  fifty  thousand." 

"  He  is  quite  lavish." 

"  Oh,  quite.  That  makes  it  so  pleasant 
to  do  business  with  him." 

"  Did  you  advance  the  money  for 
this?" 

"  He  did  not  ask  it.  He  raised  the 
money  somehow,  perhaps  from  v^ur  old 
advances,  and  bought  them  from  the 
broker.  The  broker  was  of  course  my- 
self. The  beauty  of  all  this  is  that  I 
send  applicants  for  money,  who  give 
their  notes  ;  he  gets  money  from  Tie  and 
gives  his  notes  to  me,  and  then  advances 
the  money  to  these  applicants,  who 
bring  it  back  to  me.  It's  odd,  isn't 
it?" 

Louis  smiled. 

"  Has  he  no  bono  fide  debtors  in  his 
own  county?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  plenty  of  them  ;  but  more 
t'lan  half  of  his  advances  have  been 
made  to  my  men." 


THE    "PROMETHEUS' 


223 


[lis  notes,"  con- 
it  of  regard  to 
ny  senior." 
:cl  Louis, 
ecommend  him 
might  purchase 
;   companies.     1 
ommended  hini. 
identially  to  tell 
jest,  so  I  kindly 
ise  the  Mexican 
1.    I  also  reconi- 
bonds.    I  threw 
;,  and  by  dextrous 
price  to  three  per 
id  ;£io3  for  every 
s  to  sell  out,  as 
to  do,  he  will  be 
ve  per  cent." 

thousand ;  Guate- 
:    and    Venezuela 


kes  it  so  pleasant 

the    money  for 

He  raised  the 
aps  from  ^nir  old 
them  from  the 
vas  of  course  my- 
all this  is  that  I 
loney,  who  give 
oney  from  ^e  aiul 
nd  then  advances 
applicants,  who 
It's  odd,  isn't 

fide  debtors  in  his 

them;  but  more 
ances    have   been 


"  Did  you  hint  anything  about  issuing 
notes  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  and  the  bait  took  wonder- 
fully. He  made  his  bank  a  bank  of  issue 
at  once,  and  sent  out  a  hundred  and  fifty 
Miousand  pounds  in  notes.  I  think  it 
was  in  this  way  that  he  got  the  money 
(or  all  that  American  stock.  At  any 
rate,  it  helped  him.  As  he  has  only 
a  small  supply  of  gold  in  his  vaults, 
you  may  very  readily  conjecture  his 
peculiar  position." 

Louis  was  silent  for  a  time. 

"  You  have  managed  admirably,  Frank," 
said  he  at  last. 

"  Oh,"  rejoined  Frank,  "  Potts  is  very 
small  game,  financially.  There  is  no 
skill  needed  in  playing  with  him.  He 
is  such  a  clumsy  bungler  that  he  does 
whatever  one  wishes.  There  is  not  even 
excitement.  Whatever  I  tell  him  to  do 
he  does.  Now  if  I  were  anxious  to 
crush  the  Rothschilds,  it  would  be  very 
difi'erent.  There  would  then  be  a  chance 
for  skill." 


"  You  have  had  the  chance." 

"  I  did  not  wish  to  ruin  them,"  said 
Frank.  "  Too  many  innocent  people 
would  have  suffered.  I  only  wished  to 
alarm  them.  I  rather  think,  from  what  I 
hear,  that  they  were  a  little  disturbed  on 
that  day  when  they  had  to  pay  four  mil- 
lions. Yet  I  could  have  crushed  them  if 
I  had  chosen,  and  I  managed  things  so 
as  to  let  them  see  this." 

"  How  ?  " 

"  I  controlled  other  engagements  of 
theirs,  and  on  the  same  day  I  magnani- 
mously wrote  them  a  letter  saying  that  I 
would  not  press  for  payment:  as  their 
notes  were  as  good  to  me  as  money. 
Had  I  pressed  they  would  have  gone 
down.  Nothing  could  have  saved  them. 
But  I  did  not  wish  that.  The  fact  is 
they  have  locked  up  their  means  very 
much,  and  have  been  rather  careless  of 
late.  They  have  learned  a  lesson 
now." 

Louis  relapsed  into  his  reflections,  and 
Frank  began  to  answer  his  letters. 


CHAFTER  XXXVn 


THE     "PROMETHEUS 


It  took  some  time  for  Langhetti  to 
make  his  preparations  in  London.  Sep- 
tember came  before  he  had  completed 
them.  To  his  surprise  these  arrange- 
ments were  much  ep  .ier  than  he  had 
supposed.  People  came  to  him  of  their 
own  accord  before  he  thought  it  possible 
that  they  could  have  heard  of  his  prtject. 
What  most  surprised  him  was  a  call  from 
the  manager  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre, 
who  offered  to  put  it  into  his  hands  for 


a  price  so  low  as  to  surprise  Langhetti 
more  than  anything  else  that  had  occurred. 
Of  course  he  accepted  the  offer  gratefully 
and  eagerly.  The  manager  s.i.  .1  that  the 
Duilding  was  on  his  hands,  and  he  did 
not  wish  to  use  it  for  the  present,  for 
which  reason  he  would  be  glad  to  turn 
it  over  to  him.  He  remarked  also  that 
there  wis  very  much  stock  in  the  theatre 
that  coald  be  made  use  of,  for  which  he 
would  charge  nothing  whatever.    Lan- 


224 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


> 


ghetti  went  to  see  it,  and  found  a  large 
number  of  magnificently  painted  scenes, 
which  could  be  used  in  his  piece.  On 
asking  the  manager  how  scenes  of  this 
sort  came  to  be  there,  he  learned  that 
someone  had  been  representing  the 
"  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort. 

Langhetti's  means  were  very  limited, 
and,  as  he  had  risked  everything  on  this 
experiment,  he  was  rejoiced  to  find  events 
so  very  greatly  in  his  favor. 

Another  circumstance  which  was 
equally  in  his  favor,  if  not  more  so,  was 
the  kind  consideration  of  the  London 
papers.  They  announced  his  forthcoming 
work  over  and  over  again.  Some  of  their 
writers  came  to  see  him  so  as  to  get  the 
particulars,  and  what  little  he  told  them 
they  d  "cribed  in  the  most  attractive  and 
effective  manner. 

A  large  number  of  people  presented 
themselves  to  form  his  company,  and  he 
also  received  applications  by  letter  from 
many  whose  eminence  and  fortunes 
placed  them  above  the  need  of  any  such 
thing.  It  was  simply  incomprehensible 
to  Langhetti,  who  thoroughly  understood 
the  ways  of  the  musical  world  ;  yet  since 
they  offered  he  was  only  too  happy  to 
accept.  On  having  interviews  with  these 
persons  he  was  amazed  to  find  that  they 
were  one  and  all  totally  indifferent  about 
terms  ;  they  all  assured  him  that  they 
were  ready  to  take  any  part  whatever, 
and  merely  wished  to  assist  in  the  repre- 
s  intation  of  a  piece  so  new  and  so  original 
as  his  was  said  to  be.  They  all  named 
a  price  which  was  excessively  low,  and 
assured  him  that  they  did  so  only  for 
form's  sake  ;  positively  refus'^ir  to  accept 
anything  more,  and  leaving  it  lo  Langhetti 
either  to  take  them  on  their  own  terms  or 
to  reject  them.  He,  of  course,  could  not 
reject  aid  so  powerful  and  s«  unexpected. 


At  length  he  had  his  rehearsal.  After 
various  trials  he  invited  representatives 
of  the  London  press  to  be  present  at 
the  last.  They  all  came,  and  all  without 
exception  wrote  the  most  glowing  ac- 
counts for  their  respective  journals. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  said  he  to 
Beatrice.    "  Everything    has  come  into 
my  hands.     I  don't  understand   it.    It 
seems  to  me  exactly  as  if  there  was  some 
powerful,   unseen    hand    assisting  me; 
someone  who  secretly  put  everything  in 
my  way,  who  paid  these  artists  first  and 
then  sent  them  to  me,  and  influenced  all 
the  journals  in  my  favor.  I  should  be  sure 
of  this  if  it  were  not  a  more  incredible 
thing  than  the  actual  result  itself.     As  it 
is  I  am  simply  perplexed  and  bewildered. 
It  is  a  thing  that  is  without  parallel.   I 
have  a  company  such  as  no  one  has  ever 
before  gathered  together  on  one  stage. 
I  have  eminent  prima  donnas  who  are 
quite  willing  to  sing  second  and  third 
parts  without  caring  what  I  pay  them,  or 
whether  I  pay  them  or  not.    I  know  the 
musical  world.     All  I  can  say  is  that  ths 
thing  is  unexampled,  and  I  cannot  com- 
prehend it.    I  have  tried  to  find  out  from 
some  of  them  what  it  all  means,  but  they 
give  me  no  satisfaction.     At  any  rate, 
my   Bicina,  you   will  make  your  dt'l'nf 
under  the  most  favorable  circumstances. 
You  saw  how  they  admired  your  voice  at 
the  rehearsal.     The  world  shall  admire 
it  still  more  at  your  first  performance." 

Langhetti  was  j  uzzled,  and,  as  he  said, 
bewildered,  but  he  did  not  slacken  a  single 
effort  to  make  his  opera  successful.  His 
exertions  were  as  unremitting  as  though 
he  were  still  struggling  against  difficulties, 
After  all  that  had  been  done  for  him  he 
knev;  very  well  that  he  was  sure  uf  a 
good  house,  yet  he  worke  I  as  hard  as 
though  his  audience  was  vny  uncertain. 

At  length  the  appointed  evening  came, 


THE    " PROMETHEUS 


225 


ehearsal.     After 
1  representatives 
)  be  present  at 
,  cir.d  all  without 
ost  glowing  ac- 
ive  journals. 
,t  is,"  said  he  to 
has  come  into 
nderstand  it.    It 
if  there  was  some 
d    assisting  me; 
put  everything  in 
e  artists  first  and 
and  influenced  all 
r.  I  should  be  sure 
a  more  incredible 
esult  itself.     As  it 
;d  and  bewildered, 
vithout  parallel.   1 
as  no  one  has  ever 
:her  on  one  stage. 
1  donnas  who  are 
second  and  third 
'hat  I  pay  them,  or 
not.     I  know  the 
can  say  is  that  ths 
nd  I  cannot  com- 
led  to  find  out  from 
ill  means,  but  they 
ion.     At  any  rate, 
make  your  di'htit 
ibie  circumstances, 
mired  your  voice  at 
world  shall  admire 
Ifirst  performance." 
led,  and,  as  he  said, 
not  slacken  a  single 
ira  successful.    His 
•emitting  as  though 
against  dilfioulties. 
;n  done  for  him  he 
he  was   sure  of  a 
'orke  1  as  hard  as 
■as  vny  uncertain. 
nted  evening  came. 


Langhetti  had  certainly  expected  a  good 
house  from  those  happy  accidents  which 
had  given  him  the  co-operation  of  the 
entire  musical  world  and  of  the  press. 
Yet  when  he  looked  out  and  saw  the 
house  that  waited  for  the  rising  of  tlie 
curtain  he  was  overwhelmed. 

When  he  thus  looked  out  it  was  long 
before  the  time.  A  great  murmur  had 
attracted  his  attention.  He  saw  the 
house  crammed  in  every  part.  All  the 
boxes  were  filled.  In  the  pit  was  a  vast 
congregation  of  gentlemen  and  ladies, 
the  very  galleries  were  thronged. 

The  wonder  that  had  all  along  filled 
him  was  now  greater  than  ever.  He 
well  knew  under  what  circumstances  even 
an  ordinarily  good  house  is  collected 
together.  There  must  either  be  un- 
doubted I'ame  in  the  prima  donna,  or  else 
the  most  wide-spread  and  comprehensive 
efforts  on  the  part  of  a  skilful  impresario. 
His  efforts  had  been  great,  but  not  such 
as  to  ensure  anything  like  this.  To 
account  for  the  prodigious  crowd,  which 
filled  every  part  of  the  large  edifice,  was 
simply  impossible. 

He  did  not  attempt  to  account  for  it. 
He  accepted  the  situation,  and  prepared 
for  the  performance. 

What  sort  of  an  idea  that  audience 
may  have  had  of  the  *'  Prometheus  "  of 
Langhetti  need  hardly  be  conjectured. 
They  had  heard  of  it  as  a  novelty.  They 
had  heard  that  the  company  was  the  best 
ever  collected  at  one  time,  and  that  the 
prima  donna  v»ras  a  prodigy  of  genius. 
That  was  enough  for  them.  They  waited 
in  a  state  of  expectation  which  was  so 
high-pitched  that  it  would  have  proved 
disastrous  in  the  extreme  to  any  piece, 
or  any  singer,  who  should  have  proved  to 
be  in  the  slightest  degree  inferior.  Con- 
summate excellence  alone  in  every  part 
could  now  save  the  piece    from    ruin. 


This  Langhetti  felt ;  but  he  was  calm, 
for  he  had  confidence  in  his  work  and  in 
his  company.  Most  of  all,  he  had  con- 
fidence in  Beatrice. 

At  last  the  curtain  rose. 

The  scene  was  such  a  one  as  had  never 
before  been  represented.  A  blaze  of 
dazzling  light  filled  the  stage,  and  before 
it  stood  seven  forms,  representing  the 
seven  archangels.  They  began  one  of 
the  subl'mest  strains  ever  heard.  Each 
of  these  singers  had  in  some  v;ay  won 
emineui,^.  T'ley  had  thrown  themselves 
into  this  work.  The  music  which  had 
been  given  to  them  had  produced  an 
exalted  effect  upon  their  own  hearts,  and 
now  they  rendered  forth  that  grand 
"Chorus  of  Angels  "  which  those  who 
heard  the  "  Prometheus  "  have  never  for- 
gotten. The  words  resembled,  in  some 
measure,  the  opening  song  in  Goethe's 
"Faust,"  but  the  music  was  Langhetti's. 

The  effect  of  this  magnificent  opening 
was  wonderful.  The  audience  sat  spell- 
bound—hushed into  stillness  by  those 
transcendent  harmonies  which  seemed 
like  the  very  song  of  the  angels  them- 
selves ;  like  that  "  new  song  "  which  is 
spoken  of  in  Revelation.  The  grandeur 
of  Handel's  stupendous  chords  was 
renewed,  and  everyone  present  felt  its 
power. 

Then  came  the  second  scene.  Prome- 
theus lay  s'lfTcring.  The  ocean  nymphs 
were  around  him,  sympathizing  with  his 
woes.  The  sufferer  lay  chained  to  a 
bleak  rock  in  the  summit  of  frosty  Cau- 
casus. Far  and  wide  extended  an  ex- 
panse of  ice.  In  the  distance  arose  a  vast 
world  of  snow-covered  peaks.  In  front 
was  a  titer  de  glace,  which  extended  all 
along  the  stnge. 

Prometheus  addressed  all  nature — 
"  the  divine  ether,  the  swift-winged 
winds,  Earth  the  All-mother,  a;  1  the 


326 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


^ 


infinite  la;ighter  of  the  ocean  waves." 
The  thoughts  were  those  of  yEschylus, 
expressed  by  the  music  of  Langhetti. 

The  ocean  nymphs  bewailed  him  in  a 
song  of  mournful  sweetness,  whose  in- 
describable pathos  touched  every  heart. 
It  was  the  intensity  of  sympathy — sym- 
pathy so  profound  that  it  became  anguish, 
for  the  heart  that  felt  it  had  identified 
itself  with  the  heart  of  the  sufferer. 

Then  followed  an  extraordinary  strain. 
It  was  the  Voice  of  Universal  Nature, 
animate  and  inanimate,  mourning  over 
the  agony  of  the  God  of  Love.  In  that 
strain  was  heard  the  voice  of  man,  the 
sighing  of  the  winds,  the  moaning  of  the 
sea,  the  murmur  of  the  trees,  the  wail  of 
bird  and  beast,  all  blending  in  extraordi- 
nary unison,  and  all  speaking  of  woe. 

And  now  a  third  scene  opened.  It  was 
Athene.  Athene  represented  Wisdom  or 
Human  Understanding,  by  which  the 
God  of  Vengeance  is  dethroned,  and  gives 
place  to  the  eternal  rule  of  the  God  of 
Love.  To  but  few  of  those  present  could 
this  idea  of  Langhetti's  be  intelligible. 
The  most  of  them  merely  regarded  the 
fable  and  its  music,  without  looking  for 
any  meaning  beneath  the  surface. 

To  these,  and  to  all,  the  appearance  of 
Beatrice  was  like  a  new  revelation.  She 
came  forward  and  stood  in  the  costume 
which  the  Greek  has  given  to  Athene,  but 
in  her  hand  she  held  the  olive — her 
emblem — instead  of  the  spear.  From 
beneath  her  helmet  her  dark  locks  flowed 
down  and  were  wreathed  in  thick  waves 
that  clustered  heavily  about  her  head. 

Here,  as  Athene,  the  pure  classical 
contour  of  Beatrice's  features  appeared  in 
marvellous  beauty — faultless  in  their  per- 
fect Grecian  mould.  Her  large  dark 
eyes  looked  with  a  certain  solemn  mean- 
ing out  upon  the  vast  audience.  Her 
whole  face  was  refined  and  sublimed  by 


the  thought  that  was  within  her.  In  her 
artistic  nature  she  had  appropriated  this 
character  to  herself  so  thoroughly  that, 
as  she  stood  there,  she  felt  herself  to  be 
in  reality  all  that  she  represented.  The 
spectators  caught  the  same  feeling  from 
her.  Yet  so  marvellous  was  her  beauty, 
so  astonishing  was  the  perfection  of  her 
form  and  feature,  so  accurate  was  the 
living  representation  of  the  ideal  goddess, 
that  the  whole  vast  audience  after  one 
glance  burst  forth  into  pealing  thunders 
of  spontaneous  and  irresistible  applause. 

Beatrice  had  opened  her  mouth  to 
begin,  but  as  that  thunder  of  admiration 
arose  she  fell  back  a  pace.  Was  it  the 
applause  that  had  overawed  her  ? 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  one  spot  at  the 
extreme  right  of  the  pit.  A  face  was 
there  which  enchained  her.  A  face,  pale, 
sad,  mournful,  with  dark  eyes  fixed  on 
hers  in  steadfast  despair. 

Beatrice  faltered  and  fell  back,  but  it 
was  not  at  the  roar  of  applause.  It  was 
that  face — the  one  face  among  three 
thousand  before  her,  the  one,  the  only 
one  that  she  saw.  Ah.  how  in  that 
moment  all  the  past  came  rushing  before 
her — the  Indian  Ocean,  where  that  face 
first  appeared,  the  Malay  pirate,  the 
Atlantic,  the  shipwreck,  the  long  sail  over 
the  seas  in  the  boat,  the  African  isle  ! 

She  stood  so  long  in  silence  that  the 
spectators  wondered. 

Suddenly  the  face  which  had  so  trans- 
fixed her  sank  dow  n.  He  was  gone,  or  he 
had  hid  himself.  Was  it  because  he  knew 
that  he  was  the  cause  of  her  silence  ? 

The  face  disappeared,  and  the  spell  was 
broken.  Langhetti  stood  at  the  side- 
scenes,  watching  w'.h  deep  agitation  the 
silence  of  Beatrice.  He  was  on  the  point 
of  taking  the  desperate  step  of  going  for- 
ward when  he  saw  that  she  had  regained 
her  composure. 


THE  "PROMETHEUS" 


327 


lin  her.    In  her 
ppropriatecl  this 
:hoioughly  that, 
elt  herself  to  be 
presented.     The 
ime  feeling  from 
was  her  beauty, 
perfection  of  her 
ccurate  was  the 
the  ideal  goddess, 
adience  after  one 
pealing  thunders 
ssistible  applause. 
;d    her  mouth    to 
ider  of  admiration 
pace.    Was  it  the 
awed  her  ? 
on  one  spot  at  the 
pit.     A  face  was 
her.     A  face,  pale, 
lark  eyes  fixed  on 
lir. 

id  fell  back,  but  it 
applause.    It  was 
•ace    among    tliree 
the  one,  the  only 
Ah.   how  in  that 
;ame  rushing  before 
Ln,  where  that  face 
Malay    pirate,   the 
;k,  the  long  sail  over 
fhe  African  isle ! 
in  silence  that  the 

[which  had  so  trans- 
He  was  gone,  or  he 

|s  it  because  he  knew 
of  her  silence  ? 

fed,  and  the  spell  was 

stood  at  the  side- 
..  deep  agitation  the 
JHewas  on  the  point 

|ite  step  of  going  for- 
lat  she  had  regained 


She  regained  it,  and  moved  a  step  for- 
ward with  such  calm  serenity  that  no  one 
could  have  suspected  her  of  having  lost 
it.  She  began  to  sing.  In  an  opera  words 
are  nothing — music  is  all  in  all.  It  is 
sufficient  if  the  words  express,  even  in  a 
feeble  and  general  way,  the  ideas  which 
breathe  and  burn  in  the  music.  Thus  it 
was  with  the  words  in  the  opening  song 
of  Beatrice. 

But  the  music  I  What  language  can 
describe  it? 

Upon  this  all  the  richest  stores  of 
Langhetti's  genius  had  been  lavished. 
Into  this  all  the  soul  of  Beatrice  was 
thrown  with  sublime  self-forgetfulness. 
She  ceased  to  be  herself.  Before  the 
audience  she  was  Athene. 

Her  voice,  always  marvellously  rich  and 
full,  was  now  grander  and  more  capacious 
than  ever.  It  poured  forth  a  full  stream 
of  matchless  harmony  that  carried  all 
the  audience  captive.  Strong,  soaring, 
penetrating,  it  rose  easily  to  the  highest 
notes,  and  flung  them  forth  with  a  lavish, 
and  at  the  same  time  far-reaching  power 
that  penetrated  every  heart,  and  thrilled 
all  who  heard  it.  Roused  to  the  highest 
enthnsiasm  by  the  sight  of  that  vast 
assemblage,  Beatrice  gave  herself  up  to 
the  intoxication  of  the  hour.  She  threw 
herself  into  the  spirit  of  the  piece ;  she 
took  deep  into  her  heart  the  thought 
of  Langhetti,  and  uttered  it  forth  to  the 
listeners  with  harmonies  that  were  almost 
divine— such  harmonies  as  they  had  never 
before  heard. 
There  was  the  silence  of  death  as  she 


sang.  Her  voice  stilled  all  other  sounds. 
Each  listener  seemed  almost  afraid  to 
breathe.  Some  looked  at  one  another  in 
amazement,  but  most  of  them  sat  motion- 
less, with  their  heads  stretched  forward, 
unconscious  of  anything  except  that  one 
voice. 

At  last  it  ceased.  For  a  moment  there 
was  a  pause.  Then  there  arose  a  deep, 
low  thunder  of  applause  that  deepened 
and  intensified  itself  every  moment  till  at 
last  it  rose  on  high  in  one  sublime  out- 
burst, a  frenzy  of  acclamation  such  as  is 
heard  but  seldom,  but,  once  heard,  is 
never  forgotten. 

Beatrice  was  called  out.  She  came, 
and  retired.  Again  and  again  she  was 
called.  Flowers  were  showered  down 
in  heaps  at  her  feet.  The  acclamations 
went  on,  and  only  ceased  through  the 
consciousness  that  more  was  yet  to  come. 
The  piece  went  on.  It  was  one  long  tri- 
umph. At  last  it  ended,  Beatrice  had 
been  loaded  with  honors.  Langhetti  was 
called  out  and  welcomed  with  almost 
equal  enthusiasm.  His  eyes  filled  with 
tears  of  joy  as  he  received  this  well- 
merited  tribute  to  his  genius.  He  and 
Beatrice  stood  on  the  stage  at  the  same 
time.  Flowers  were  flung  at  him.  He 
took  them  and  laid  them  at  the  feet  of 
Beatrice. 

At  this  a  louder  roar  of  acclamation 
arose.  It  increased  and  deepened,  and 
the  two  who  stood  there  felt  overwhelmed 
by  the  tremendous  applause. 

So  ended  the  first  representation  of 
the  "  Prometheus  "  I 


M 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 


THE    SECRET 


The  triumph  of  Beatrice  continued. 
The  daily  papers  were  filled  with  accounts 
of  the  new  singer.  She  had  come  sud- 
denly before  them,  and  had  at  one  bound 
reached  the  highest  eminence.  She  had 
eclipsed  all  the  popular  favorites.  Her 
sublime  strains,  her  glorious  enthusiasm, 
her  marvellous  voice,  her  perfect  beauty, 
all  kindled  the  popular  heart.  The 
people  forgave  her  for  not  having  an 
Italian  name,  since  she  had  one  which 
was  so  aristocratic.  Her  whole  appear- 
ance showed  that  she  was  something 
very  different  from  the  common  order 
of  artistes,  as  different,  in  fact,  as  the 
"Prometheus"  was  from  the  common 
order  of  operas.  For  here  in  the  *'  Pro- 
metheus "  there  were  no  endless  iterations 
of  the  one  theme  of  love,  no  perpetual 
repetitions  of  the  same  rhyme  of  amore 
and  cuore,  or  amor '  and  cuor ' ;  but 
rather  the  effort  of  the  soul  after  sublimer 
mysteries.  The  "  Prometheus  "  sought 
to  solve  the  problem  of  life  and  of  human 
suffering.  Its  divine  sentiments  brought 
hope  and  consolation.  The  great  singer 
rose  to  the  altitude  of  a  sibyl ;  she 
uttered  inspirations;  she  herself  was 
inspired. 

As  she  stood  with  her  grand  Grecian 
beauty,  her  pure  classic  features,  she 
looked  as  beautiful  as  a  statue,  and 
as  ideal  and  passionless.  In  one  sense 
she  could  never  be  a  popular  favorite. 
She  had  no  archr°ss  or  coquetry  like 
some,  no  voluptuousness  like  others,  no 
arts  to  win  applause  like  others.    Still 


she  stood  up  and  sang  as  one  who 
believed  that  this  was  the  highest  mission 
of  humanity,  to  utter  divine  truth  to 
human  ears.  She  sang  loftily,  thrillingly, 
as  an  angel  might  sing ;  and  those  who 
saw  her  revered  her  while  they  listened. 

And  thus  it  was  that  the  fame  of  this 
new  singer  went  quickly  through  Eng- 
land, and  foreign  journals  spoke  of  it  half- 
wonderingly,  half-cynically,  as  usual ;  for 
Continentals  never  have  any  faith  in  Eng- 
lish art,  or  in  the  power  which  any  Eng- 
lishman may  have  to  interpret  art.  The 
leading  French  journals  conjectured  that 
the  "  Prometheus  "  was  of  a  religious 
character,  and  therefore  Puritanical ;  ami 
consequently  for  that  reason  was  popular. 
They  amused  themselves  with  the  idea  of 
a  Puritanical  opera,  declared  that  the 
English  wished  to  Protestantize  music, 
and  suggested  "  Calvin  "  or  "  The  Sab- 
bath" as  good  subjects  for  this  new  and 
entirely  English  class  of  operas. 

But  soon  the  correspondents  of  some 
of  the  Continental  papers  began  to  write 
glowing  accounts  of  the  piece,  and  to  put 
Langhetti  in  the  same  class  with  Handel. 
He  was  an  Italian,  they  said,  but  in  this 
case  he  united  Italian  grace  and  versatil- 
ity with  German  solemnity  and  melan- 
choly. They  declared  that  he  was  the 
greatest  of  living  composers,  and  prom- 
ised for  him  a  great  reputation. 

Night  after  night  the  representation  of 
the  "  Prometheus "  went  on  with  un- 
diminished success ;  and  with  a  larger 
and  profounder  appreciation  of  .is  mean- 


328 


THE   SECRET 


229 


ing  as  one  wbo 
e  highest  mission 
divine    truth  to 
loftily,  thrillingly. 
[ ;  and  those  who 
ile  they  listened. 
L  the  fame  of  tl\is 
kly  through  Eng- 
ds  spoke  of  it  half- 
:ally,  as  usual ;  for 
e  any  faith  in  Eng- 
;r  which  any  Eng- 
interpret  art.    The 
Is  conjectured  that 
/as  of  a  religious 
e  Puritanical ;  and 
eason  was  popular. 
/es  with  the  idea  of 
declared    that  tlie 
Irotestantize  music, 
lin  "  or  "  The  Sab- 
,s  for  this  new  and 
of  operas, 
ipondents  of  some 
[lers  began  to  write 
le  piece,  and  to  put 
class  with  Hiindcl. 
jy  said,  but  in  this 
grace  and  versatil- 
■mnity  and  melan- 
[l  that  he  was  the 
iposers,  and  piom- 
putation. 

;e  representation  of 

ent  on  with  un- 

and  with  a  larger 

iation  of  as  mean- 


ing among  the  better  class  of  minds. 
Langhetti  began  to  show  a  stronger  and 
fuller  confidence  'n  the  success  of  his 
piece  than  he  had  yet  dared  to  evince. 
Yet  now  its  success  seemed  assufed. 
What  more  could  he  Wish  ? 

The  weeks  passed  by,  and  every  suc- 
ceeding night  only  made  the  success 
more  marked.  One  day  Langhetti  was 
with  Beatrice  at  the  theatre,  and  they 
were  talking  of  many  things.  There 
seemed  to  be  something  on  his  mind,  for 
he  spoke  in  an  abstracted  manner. 
Beatrice  noticed  this  at  last,  and  men- 
tioned it. 

He  was  at  first  very  mysterious.  "  It 
must  be  that  secret  of  yours  which  you 
will  not  tell  me,"  said  she.  "  You  said 
once  before  that  it  was  connected  with 
nie,  and  that  you  would  tell  it  to  me 
when  the  time  came.  Has  not  the  time 
coine  yet  ?  " 

"  Not  yet,"  answered  Langhetti. 

"  When  will  it  come  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  And  will  you  keep  it  secret  always?  " 

"  Perhaps  not." 

"  You  speak  undecidedly." 

"  I  am  undecided." 

"Why  not  decide  now  to  tell  it.''" 
pleaded  Beatrice.  "  Why  should  I  not 
know  it  ?  Surely  I  have  gone  through 
enough  suffering  to  bear  this,  even  if 
it  bring  something  additional." 

Langhetti  looked  at  her  long  and 
doubtfully. 

"You  hesitate,"  said  she. 

"  Yes." 

"Why?" 

"  It  is  of  too  much  importance." 

"That  is  all  the  more  reason  why  I 
should  know  it.  Would  it  crush  me  if 
I  knew  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     It  might." 

"Then  let  me  be  crushed." 


Langhetti  sighed. 

"  Is  it  something  that  you  know  for 
certain,  or  is  it  only  conjecture  ?  " 

"  Neither,"  said  he,  "  but  half-way  be- 
tween the  two." 

Beatrice  looked  earnestly  at  him  for 
some  time.  Then  she  put  her  head 
nearer  to  his  and  spoke  in  a  solemn 
whisper. 

"  It  is  about  my  mother  !  " 

Langhetti  looked  at  her  with  a  sta  .led 
expression. 

"  Is  it  not  ?  " 

He  bowed  his  head. 

"  It  is — it  is.  And  if  so,  I  implore — I 
conjure  you  to  tell  me.  Look — I  am 
calm.  Think — I  am  strong.  I  am  not 
one  who  can  be  cast  down  merely  by  bad 
news." 

"  I  snay  tell  you  soon." 

"Say  you  will." 

"  I  will,"  said  Langhetti  after  a  struggle. 

"  Wnien  ?  " 

"Soon  " 

"  Why  not  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  That  is  too  soon  ;  you  are  impatient." 

"  Of  course  I  am,"  said  Beatrice. 
"  Ought  I  not  to  be  so  ?  Have  you  not 
said  that  this  concerns  me  ?  and  is  not  all 
my  imagination  aroused  in  the  endeavor 
to  form  a  conjecture  as  to  what  it  may 
be?" 

She  spoke  so  earnestly  that  Langhetti 
was  moved,  and  looked  still  more  un- 
decided. 

"  When  will  you  tell  me?  " 

"  Soon,  perhaps,"  he  replied  with  some 
hesitation. 

"Why  not  now?" 

"  Oh,  no  !  I  must  assure  myself  first 
about  some  things." 

"  To-morrow,  then." 

He  hesitated. 

"  Yes,"  said  she ;  "  it  must  be  to-mor- 
row.   If  you  do  not  I  shall  think  that 


230 


CORD    AND    CRF.KSE 


a? 


you  have  little  or  no  confidence  in  me. 
I  shall  expect  it  to-morrow." 

Langhetti  was  silent. 

"  I  shall  expect  it  to-morrow,"  repeated 
Beatrice. 

Langhetti  still  continued  silent. 

"  Oh,  very  well ;  silence  gives  con- 
sent ! "  said  she  in  a  lively  tone. 

"  I  have  not  consented." 

"  Yes  you  have,  by  your  silence," 

"  I  was  deliberating." 

"  I  asked  you  twice  and  you  did  not 
refuse ;   surely  that  means  consent." 

"  I  do  not  say  so,"  said  Langhetti 
earnestly. 

"  But  you  will  do  so." 

*'  Do  not  be  so  certain." 

"  Yes,  I  will  be  certain  ;  and  if  you  do 
not  tell  me  you  will  very  deeply  disappoint 
me." 

"  In  telling  you  I  could  only  give  you 
sorrow." 

"  Sorrow  or  joy,  whatever  it  is,  I  can 
bear  it  so  long  as  I  know  this.  You  will 
not  suppose  that  I  am  actuated  by  simple 
feminine  curiosity  You  know  me  better. 
This  secret  is  one  which  subjects  me 
to  the  tortures  of  suspense,  and  I  am 
anxious  to  have  them  removed." 

"  The  removal  will  be  worse  than  the 
suspense." 

"That  is  impossible." 

'*  You  would  not  say  so  if  you  knew 
what  it  was." 

"  Tell  me,  then." 

"  That  is  what  I  fear  to  do." 

"  Do  you  fear  for  me,  or  for  some 
other  person  ? " 

"Only  for  you." 

"  Do  not  fear  for  me,  then,  I  beseech 
you  ;  for  it  is  not  only  my  desire,  but  my 
prayer,  that  I  may  know  this." 


Langhetti  seemed  to  he  in  deep  per- 
plexity. Whatever  this  secret  was  with 
which  he  was  so  troubled  he  seemed 
afraid  to  tell  it  to  Beatrice,  either  from 
fear  that  it  might  not  be  anything  in 
itself  or  result  in  anything,  or,  as  seemed 
more  probable,  lest  it  might  too  greatly 
affect  her.  This  last  was  the  motive 
which  appeared  to  influence  him  most 
strongly.  In  either  case,  the  secret  of 
which  he  spcke  must  have  been  one  of 
a  highly  important  character,  affectin;,' 
most  deeply  the  life  and  fortunes  df 
Beatrice  herself.  She  had  formed  lur 
own  ideas  and  her  own  expectations 
about  it,  and  this  made  her  all  the  more 
urgent,  and  even  peremptory,  in  her 
demand.  In  fact,  things  had  come  to 
such  a  point  that  Langhetti  found  liiiii- 
self  no  longer  able  to  refuse,  and  now 
only  sought  how  to  postpone  the  di\  iil- 
gence  of  his  secret. 

Yet  even  this  Beatrice  combated,  and 
would  listen  to  no  later  postponement 
than  the  morrow. 

At  length,  after  long  resistance  to 
her  demand,  Langhetti  assented,  and 
promised  on  the  morrow  to  tell  her 
what  it  was  that  he  had  meant  by  his 
secret. 

For,  as  she  gathered  from  his  conver- 
sation, it  was  something  that  he  had  first 
discovered  in  Hong  Kong,  and  had 
never  since  forgotten,  but  had  tried  to 
make  it  certain.  His  efforts  had  thus  far 
been  useless,  and  he  did  not  wish  to 
tell  her  till  he  could  bring  proof.  That 
proof,  unfortunately,  he  was  not  able  to 
find,  and  he  could  only  tell  his  conjec- 
tures. 

It  was  for  these,  then,  that  Beatrice 
waited  in  anxious  expectation. 


-»e  in  deep  per- 
secret  was  with 
)led  he  seemed 
rice,  either  from 
be  anything  ii) 
ig,  or,  as  sicemed 
light  too  greatly 
was  the  motive 
luence  him  most 
ise,  the  secret  of 
liave  been  one  of 
aracter,    affectin,^^ 
and  fortunes  of 
had   formed  lur 
own    expectations 
e  her  all  the  more 
Tcmptory,    in    her 
ngs  had   come  to 
ighetti  found  luni- 
o  refuse,  and  now 
postpone  the  divul- 

;rice  combated,  and 
later  postponement 

long  resistance  to 
letti  assented,  and 
iiorrow  to  tell  her 
had  meant  by  his 

red  from  his  comer- 
ling  that  he  had  first 
[g    Kong,   and   had 
[n,  but  had    tried  to 
efforts  had  thus  far 
le   did  not   wish  to 
.  bring  proof.    That 
he  was  not  able  to 
I  only  tell  his  conjee- 

then,  that  Beatrice 
jxpectation. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 


THE    CAB 


That  evening  Beatrice's  performance 
Iiad  been  greeted  with  louder  applause 
than  usual,  and,  what  was  more  gratify- 
ing to  one  like  her,  the  effective  passages 
had  been  listened  to  with  a  stillness  which 
spoke  more  loudly  than  the  loudest  ap- 
plause of  the  deep  interest  of  the  audi- 
ence. 

Langhetti  had  almost  always  driven 
home  with  her,  but  on  this  occasion  he 
luid  excused  himself  on  account  of  some 
business  in  the  theatre  which  required 
his  attention. 

On  going  out  Beatrice  could  not  find 
the  cabman  wiiom  she  had  employed. 
After  looking  around  for  him  a  long  time 
she  found  that  he  had  gone.  She  was 
surprised  and  vexed.  At  the  same  time 
she  could  not  account  for  this,  but  thought 
that  perhaps  he  had  been  drinking  and 
had  forgotten  all  about  her.  On  making 
this  discovery  she  was  on  the  point  of 
going  back  and  telling  Langhetti,  but  a 
cabman  followed  her  persistently,  promis- 
ing to  take  her  wherever  she  wished,  and 
she  thought  that  it  would  be  foolish  to 
trouble  Langhetti  about  so  small  a  matter ; 
so  that  at  length  she  decided  to  employ 
the  persevering  cabman,  thinking  that  he 
could  take  her  to  her  lodgings  as  well  as 
anybody  else. 

The  cabman  started  off  at  a  rapid  pace, 
and  went  on  through  street  after  street, 
while  Beatrice  sat  thinking  of  the  evening's 
performance. 

At  last  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had 
been  a  much  longer  time  than  usual,  and 

i6 


she  began  to  fear  that  the  cabman  had 
lost  his  way.  She  looked  out.  They 
were  going  along  tiie  upper  part  of  Oxford 
Street,  a  great  distance  from  where  she 
lived.  She  instantly  tried  to  draw  down 
the  window  so  as  to  attract  the  cabman's 
attention,  but  could  not  move  it.  She 
tried  the  other,  but  all  were  fast  and 
would  not  stir.  She  rapped  at  the  {.'lass 
to  make  him  hear,  but  he  took  no  noi  ice. 
Then  she  tried  to  open  the  door,  but 
could  not  do  so  from  the  inside. 

She  sat  down  and  thought.  What 
could  be  the  meaning  of  this?  They 
were  now  going  at  a  much  faster  rate 
tiian  is  common  in  the  streets  of  London, 
but  where  she  was  going  she  could  not 
conjecture. 

She  was  not  afraid.  Her  chief  feeling 
was  one  of  indignation.  Either  the  cab- 
man was  drunk — or  what  ?  Could  he 
have  been  hired  to  carry  her  off  to  her 
enemies  ?    Was  she  betrayed  ? 

This  thought  flashed  like  lightning 
through  her  mind. 

She  was  not  one  who  would  sink  down 
into  inaction  at  the  sudden  onset  of  ter- 
ror. Her  chief  feeling  now  was  one  of 
indignation  at  the  audacity  of  such  an 
attempt.  Obeying  the  first  impulse  that 
seized  her,  she  took  the  solid  roll  of  mu- 
sic which  she  carried  with  her,  and  dashed 
it  against  the  front  window  so  violently 
that  she  broke  it  in  pieces.  Then  she 
caught  the  driver  by  the  sleeve  and 
ordered  him  to  stop. 

"  All  right,"  said  the  driver,  and,  tum- 
931 


232 


CORD    AND    CRKESE 


C3t-» 

S3 

•Kir 


c:3; 

FT: 


ing  a  corner,  he  wliipped  up  his  horses, 
and  they  galloped  on  faster  than  ever. 

"  If  you  don't  stop  I'll  call  for  help!  " 
cried  Beatrice. 

The  driver's  only  answer  was  a  fresh 
application  of  the  whip. 

The  street  up  which  they  turned  was 
narrow,  and  as  it  had  only  dwelling 
houses  it  was  not  so  brightly  lighted  as 
Oxford  Street.  There  were  but  few  foot 
passengers  on  the  sidewalk.  As  it  was 
now  about  midnight,  most  of  the  lights 
were  out,  and  the  gas  lamps  were  the 
chief  means  of  illuntinaticn. 

Yet  there  was  a  chance  that  the  police 
might  save  her.  With  this  hope  she 
dashed  her  music  scroll  against  the  win- 
dows on  each  side  of  the  cab  and  shivered 
them  to  atoms,  calling  at  the  top  of  her 
voice  for  help.  The  swift  rush  of  the 
cab  and  the  sound  of  a  woman's  voice 
shouting  for  aid  aroused  the  police. 
They  started  forward.  But  the  horses 
were  rushing  so  swiftly  that  no  one 
dared  to  touch  them.  The  driver  seemed 
to  have  lost  control.  They  thought  tliat 
the  horses  were  running  away,  and  that 
those  within  the  cab  were  frightened. 

Away  they  went  through  street  after 
street,  and  Beatrice  never  ceased  to  call. 
The  excitement  which  was  created  by  the 
runaway  horses  did  not  abate,  and  at 
length,  when  the  driver  stopped,  a  police- 
man hurried  up. 

The  house  before  which  the  cab  stopped 
was  a  plain  two-story  one,  in  a  quiet-look- 
ing street.  A  light  shone  from  the  front- 
parlor  window.  As  the  cab  drew  up  the 
door  opened  and  a  man  came  out. 

Beatrice  saw  the  policeman. 

"  Help  I  "  she  cried  ;  "  I  implore  help. 
This  wretch  is  carrying  me  away." 

"  What's  this  ?  "  growled  the  policeman. 

At  this  the  man  that  had  come  out  of 
the  house  hurried  forward. 


"  Have  you  found  her  ?  "  exclaimed  a 
well-known  voice.  "  Oh,  my  child ! 
How  could  you  leave  your  father's  roof !  " 

It  was  John  Potts. 

Beatrice  was  silent  for  a  moment  in 
utter  amazement.  Yet  she  made  a  violent 
effort  against  her  despair. 

"  You  have  no  control  over  me,"  said 
she  bitterly.  "  I  am  of  age.  And  you," 
said  she  to  the  policeman,  "  I  demaml 
your  help.  I  put  myself  under  your 
protection,  and  order  you  either  to  take 
that  man  in  charge  or  to  let  me  go  to  my 
home." 

"Oh,  my  daughter!"  cried  Potts. 
"Will  you  still  be  relentless?" 

"  Help  me  !  "  cried  Beatrice,  and  slie 
opened  the  cab  door. 

"  The  policeman  can  do  nothing,"  said 
Potts.  "  You  are  not  of  age.  He  will 
not  dare  to  take  you  from  me." 

"  I  implore  you,"  cried  Beatrice,  "  save 
me  from  this  man.  Take  me  to  the 
police-station — anywhere  rather  than 
leave  me  here  ! " 

"  You  cannot,"  said  Potts  to  the  be- 
wildered policeman.  "  Listen  I  She  is 
my  daughter  and  under  age.  She  ran 
away  with  a  strolling  Italian  vagabond 
with  whom  she  is  leading  an  improper 
life.     I   have  got   her  back." 

"  It's  false ! "  cried  Beatrice  vehemently, 
"  I  .Hed  from  this  man's  house  because  I 
feared  his  violence." 

"  That  is  an  idle  story,"  said  Potts, 

"  Save  me  ! "  cried  Beatrice. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  do — I  suppose 
I've  got  to  take  you  to  the  station  at  any 
rate,"  said  the  policeman  hesitatingly. 

"Well,"  said  Potts  to  Beatrice,  "if 
you  do  go  to  the  station-house  you'll 
have  to  be  handed  back  to  me.  You  are 
under  age." 

"  It's  false  I "  cried  Beatrice.  "  I  am 
twenty." 


THi!,   CAB 


•33 


'  "  exclaimed  a 
h,  my  child! 
father's  roof !  " 

r  a  moment  in 
e  made  a  violent 

over  me,"  said 
ige.  And  you, " 
nan,  "  1  demand 
ielf  under  your 
)U  either  to  take 
I  let  me  go  to  my 

! "    cried    Potts. 
Mitless  ?  " 
Jeatrice,  and  she 

do  nothing,"  said 
of  age.  He  will 
)m  me." 

:d  Beatrice,  "  save 
Take  me  to  the 
re     rather     than 

Potts  to  the  he- 
Listen!    She   is 

er  age.     She  ran 

Italian  vagabond 
ing  an  improper 
back." 

;atrice  vehemently. 

s  house  because  I 

y,"  said  Potts. 

eatrice. 

to  do— I  suppose 
the  station  at  any 

lan  hesitatingly. 
to  Beatrice,  "if 

tation-house  you'll 

;k  to  me.    You  are 

Beatrice.    "  I  am 


"  No,  you  are  not  more  than  seven- 
teen." 

"  Langhetti  can  prove  that  I  am 
twenty." 

"  How  ?  I  have  documents,  arid  a 
father's  word  will  be  believed  before  a 
paramour's." 

This  taunt  stung  Beatrice  to  the  soul. 

"  As  to  your  charge  about  my  cruelty, 
I  can  prove  to  the  world  that  you  lived  in 
splendor  in  Brandon  Hall.  Every  one  of 
the  servants  can  testify  to  this.  Your 
niorose  disposition  made  you  keep  by 
yourself.  You  always  treated  your  father 
with  indifference,  and  finally  ran  away 
with  a  man  who  unfortunately  had  won 
your  affections  in  Hong  Kong." 

"  You  well  know  the  reason  why  i  left 
your  roof,"  replied   Beatrice,  with  calm  | 
and  severe  dignity.    "  Your  foul  asper- 
sions upon  my  character  are  unworthy  of 
notice." 

"  And  what  shall  I  say  about  your 
aspersions  on  my  character  ? "  cried 
I'otts,  in  a  loud,  rude  voice,  hoping  by 
a  sort  of  vulgar  self-assertion  to  brow- 
beat Beatrice.  "  Do  you  remember  the 
names  you  called  me  and  your  threats 
against  me?  When  all  this  is  brought 
out  in  the  police  court,  they  will  see  what 
kind  of  a  daughter  you  have  been." 

"  You  will  be  the  last  one  who  will 
dare  to  let  it  be  brought  into  a  police 
court." 

"  And  why  ?  Those  absurd  charges  of 
yours  are  worthless.  Have  you  any 
proof?  "  he  continued,  with  a  sneer,  "  or 
lias  your  paramour  any  ?  " 

"  Take  me  away,"  said  Beatrice  to  the 
policeman. 

"  Wait ! "  exclaimed  Polts  ;  "  you  are 
Soing,  and  I  will  go  to  reclaim  you.  The 
law  will  give  you  back  to  me  ;  for  I  will 
prove  that  you  are  under  age,  and  I  have 
never  treated  you  with  anything  except 


kindness.  Now  the  law  can  do  nothing 
since  you  are  mine.  But  as  you  are  so 
young  and  inexperienced  I'll  tell  you 
what  will  happen. 

"The  newspapers,"  he  continued,  after 
a  pause,  "  will  be  full  of  your  story. 
They  will  print  what  I  shall  prove  to  be 
true — that  you  had  an  intractable  dis- 
position—that you  had  formed  a  guiiiy 
attachinent  for  a  dium-major  at  Hong 
Kong — that  you  ran  away  with  him,  lived 
for  a  while  at  Holby,  and  then  went  with 
your  paramour  to  London.  If  you  had 
only  married  him  you  would  have  been  out 
of  my  power  ;  but  you  don't  pretend  to  be 
married.  You  don't  call  yourself  Lan- 
ghetti, but  have  taken  another  name, 
which  the  sharp  newspaper  reporters  will 
hint  was  given  you  by  some  other  one 
of  your  numerous  favorites.  They  will 
declare  that  you  love  every  man  but 
your  own  father ;  and  you — you  who 
played  the  goddess  on  the  stage  and  sang 
about  Truth  and  Religion  will  be  known 
all  over  England,  and  all  over  Europe  too, 
as  the  vilest  of  the  vile." 

At  this  tremendous  menace  Beatrice's 
resolution  was  shattered  to  pieces.  That 
this  would  be  so  she  well  knew.  To 
escape  from  Potts  was  to  have  herself 
made  infamous  publicly  under  the  sanc- 
tion of  the  law,  and  then,  by  that  same 
law  to  be  handed  back  to  him.  At  least, 
whether  it  was  so  or  not,  she  thought  so. 
There  was  no  help,  no  friend. 

"  Go,"  said  Potts  ;  "  leave  me  now  and 
you  become  covered  w  th  infamy.  Who 
would  believe  your  story  ?  " 

Beatrice  was  silent ;  her  slender  frame 
was  rent  by  emotion. 

"  O  God  I  "  she  groaned — but  in  her 
deep  despair  she  could  not  find  thoughts 
even  for  prayers. 

■'  You  may  go,  policeman,"  said  Potts  ; 

my  Ir  jghter  will  come  with  me." 


»34 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


ec- 
us 


"Faith  and  I'm  glad!  It's  the  best 
thing  for  her  ;  "  and  the  pohceman,  much 
rcheved,  returned  to  his  beat. 

"  Some  of  you  'U  have  to  pay  for  tliem 
winders,"  said  the  cabman. 

"  All  right."  answered  Potts  quietly. 

"  There  is  your  home  for  to-night,  at 


any  rate,"  said  Potts,  pointing  to  the 
house.  "  I  don't  think  you  have  any 
choice  left.    You  had  better  go  in." 

His  tone  was  one  full  nf  bitter  taunt. 
Scarce  conscious,  with  her  brain  reeling, 
and  her  limbs  trembling,  Beatrice  entered 
the  house. 


CHAPTER   XL 


DISCOVERIES 


The  next  morning,  after  Beatrice's  last 
performance,  Langhetti  determined  to 
fulfil  his  promise  and  tell  her  that  secret 
which  she  had  been  so  anxious  to  know. 
On  entering  into  his  parlor  he  saw  a  letter 
lying  on  the  table  addressed  to  him.  It 
bore  no  postage  stamp  or  post-office 
mark. 

He  opened  it  and  read  the  following : 

"London,  September  $,  1849. 
"  SiGNORE  :  Cigole,  the  betrayer  and 
intended  assassin  of  your  late  father,  is 
now  in  London.  You  can  find  out  about 
him  by  enquiring  of  Giovanni  Cavallo,  16 
Red  Lion  Street.  As  a  traitor  to  the 
Carbonari,  you  will  know  that  it  is  your 
duty  to  punish  him,  evei>if  your  filial  piety 
is  not  strong  enough  to  avenge  a  father's 
wrongs. 

"  Carbonaro." 

Langhetti  read  this  several  times.  Then 
he  called  for  his  landlord. 
"  Who  left  this  letter  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  A  young  man." 
"  Do  you  know  his  name  ?  " 
"  No." 
"What  did  he  look  like?" 


"  He  looked  like  a  counting-house  clerk 
more  than  anything." 

"  When  was  it  left  ?  " 

"  About  six  o'clock  this  morning." 

Langhetti  read  it  over  and  over.  The 
news  that  it  contained  filled  his  mind.  It 
was  not  yet  ten  o'clock.  He  would  not 
take  any  breakfast,  but  went  out  at  once, 
jumped  into  a  cab,  and  drove  off  to  Keil 
Lion  Street. 

Giovanni  Cavallo's  office  was  in  a  low 
dingy  building,  with  a  dark,  narrow  door- 
way. It  was  one  of  those  numerous 
establishments  conducted  and  supported 
by  foreigners  whose  particular  business 
it  is  not  easy  to  conjecture.  The  build- 
ing was  full  of  offices,  but  this  was  on  the 
ground  floor. 

Langhetti  entered,  and  found  the  in- 
terior as  dingy  as  the  exterior.  There 
was  a  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
Beyond  this  was  a  door  which  opened 
into  the  back  room. 

Only  one  person  was  here — a  small, 
bright-eyed  man,  with  thick  Vandyke 
beard  and  sinewy  though  small  frame. 
Langhetti  took  off  his  hat  and  bowed. 

"  I  wish  to  see  Signore  Cavallo,"  said 
he  in  Italian, 


lMS(OVF.R!F.S 


«35 


pointing  to  the 
you  have  any 

tier  no  >'^-" 
1  of  bitter  tauni. 
er  brain  reeliiiK, 
,  Beatrice  enteral 


unting-house  clerk 


his  morning." 
er  and  over.  The 
filled  his  mind.  It 
k.  He  would  not 
t  went  out  at  once, 
drove  off  to  Reil 

)ffice  was  in  a  low 
Idark,  narrow  door- 
if  those  numerous 
;ted  and  supported 
Iparticular  business 
'Cture.  The  build- 
but  this  was  on  tlie 

land  found  the  in- 
lie  exterior.  There 
liddle  of  the  room. 
lloor  which  opened 

vas  here— a  small, 
[th  thick  Vandyke 
lough  small  frame. 
lis  hat  and  bowed. 
Lore  Cavallo,"  sai4 


"I  am  Signore  Cavallo,"  answered  the 
other  blandly. 

Langhetti  made  a  peculiar  motion  with 
his  left  arm.  The  keen  eye  of  the  qtiier 
noticed  it  in  an  instant.  He  returned 
;i  gesture  of  a  similar  character.  Lan- 
ghetti and  he  then  exchanged  some  more 
secret  signs.  At  last  Langhetti  made 
one  which  caused  the  other  to  start  and 
to  bow  with  deep  respect. 

"  I  did  not  know,"  said  he  in  a  low 
voice,  "  that  any  of  the  Interior  Council 
ever  came  to  London.  .  .  lUit  come  in 
here,"  and  he  led  the  way  into  the  inner 
room,  the  door  of  which  he  locked  very 
mysteriously. 

A  long  conference  followed,  the  details 
of  which  would  only  be  tedious.  At  the 
close  Cavallo  said  : 

"  There  is  some  life  in  us  yet,  and 
what  life  we  have  left  shall  be  spent  in 
trapping  that  miscreant.  Italy  shall  be 
avenged  on  one  of  her  traitors,  at  any 
rate," 

"  You  will  write  as  I  told  you,  and  let 
me  know.'  " 
"Most  faithfully." 

Langhetti  departed,  satisfied  with  the 
result  of  this  interview.  What  surprised 
him  most  was  the  letter.  The  writer 
must  have  been  one  who  had  been  ac- 
quainted with  his  past  life.  He  was 
amazed  to  find  anyone  denouncing  Ci- 
gole  to  him,  but  finally  concluded  that  it 
must  be  some  old  Carbonaro,  exiled 
through  the  afflictions  which  had  be- 
fallen that  famous  society,  and  cherish- 
ing in  his  exile  the  bitter  resentment 
which  only  exiles  can  feel. 

Cavallo  himself  had  known  Cigole  for 
years,  but  had  no  idea  whatever  of  his 
early  career.  Cigole  had  no  suspicion 
that  Cavallo  had  anything  to  do  with  the 
Carbonari.  His  firm  were  general  agents, 
who   did    business  of    a  miscellaneous 


character,  now  commission,  now  b.mking, 
;in(l  now  shipping;  and  in  vaiious  ways 
they  had  had  dealings  with  this  man, 
and  kept  up  an  irregular  correspondence 
with  him. 

This  letter  had  excited  afresh  within 
his  ardent  and  impetuous  nature  all  the 
remembrances  of  early  wrongs.  Gentle 
though  he  was,  and  pure  in  heart,  and 
elevated  in  all  his  aspirations,  he  yet  was 
in  all  respects  a  true  child  of  the  South, 
and  his  passionate  nature  was  roused 
to  a  storm  by  this  prospect  of  just  re- 
taliation. All  the  lofty  doctrines  with 
which  he  might  console  others  were  of 
no  avail  here  in  giving  him  calm.  He 
had  never  voluntarily  pursued  Cigole ; 
but  now,  since  this  villain  had  been  pre- 
sented to  him,  he  could  not  turn  aside 
from  what  he  considered  the  holy  duty  of 
avenging  a  ( ither's  wrongs. 

He  saw  that  for  the  present  everything 
would  have  to  give  way  to  this.  He  de- 
termined at  once  to  suspend  the  repre- 
sentation of  the  "  Prometheus,"  even 
though  it  was  at  the  height  of  its  popu- 
larity and  in  the  full  tide  of  its  success. 
He  determined  to  send  Beatrice  under 
his  sister's  care,  and  to  devote  himself 
now  altogether  to  the  pursuit  of  Cigole, 
even  if  he  had  to  follow  him  to  the 
world's  end.  The  search  after  him  might 
not  be  long  aiier  all,  for  Cavallo  felt  san- 
guine of  speedy  success,  and  assured  him 
that  the  traitor  was  in  his  power,  and 
that  the  Carbonari  in  London  were  suffi- 
ciently numerous  to  seize  him  and  send 
him  to  whatever  punishment  might  be 
deemed  most  fitting. 

With  such  plans  and  purposes  Lan- 
ghetti went  to  visit  Beatrice,  wondering 
how  she  would  receive  the  intelligence  of 
his  new  purpose. 

It  was  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  be- 
fore he  reached  her  lodgings.    On  going 


236 


CORD    AND   CR?;ESE 


Si 


up  he  rapped.  A  servant  came,  and  on 
seeing  him  looked  ^rigo^ened. 

"  Is  Miss  Desparc'  i;i  r  " 

The  servant  said  nothing,  but  ran  off. 
Langhetti  stood  waiting  in  surprise ;  but 
in  a  short  time  the  landlady  came.  She 
had  a  troubled  look,  and  did  not  even 
return  his  salutation. 

"  Is  Miss  Despard  in  ?  " 

'•  She  is  not  here,  sir." 

"  Not  here  i '" 

"  No,  sir.  I'm  frighttiied.  There  vvasi 
a  man  here  early  this  morning,  too." 

"  A  n.:m  here.     What  for  ?  " 

"  Vx"-._,,  to  ask  after  her." 

"  And  did  he  see  her  ?  " 

"She  wasi;'.  hei ^." 

"  Wasn't  here  !    What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"She  didn't  com?  home  at  all  last 
night.     I  waited  up  for  her  till  four." 

"  Didn't  come  home  ! "  cried  Langhetti, 
as  an  awful  fear  came  o/er  him. 

"No,  sir." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  we  that  she 
didn't  come  home  at  her  usual  hour  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  not  at  r.ll ;  and  as  I  was  say- 
ing, I  sat  up  nearly  all  night." 

"  Heavens  !  "  cried  Langhetti.  in  je- 
wilderment.  "  What  is  the  meaning  of 
this?  But  take  me  to  her  room.  Let 
me  see  with  my  own  eyes." 

The  landlady  led  the  way  up,  and 
Langhetti  followed  anxiously.  The 
rooms  were  empty.  Everything  re- 
mained just  as  she  had  left  it.  Her  music 
was  lying  loosely  around.  The  landlady 
said  that  she  had  touched  nothing. 

Langhetti  asked  about  the  man  who 
had  called  in  the  morning.  The  land- 
lady could  tell  nothing  about  him,  except 
that  he  was  a  gentleman  with  dark  hair 
and  very  stern  eyes  that  terrified  her. 
He  seemed  to  be  very  angry  or  very  ter- 
rible in  some  way  about  Beatrice. 

Who  could  this  be  ?  thought  Langhetti. 


The  landlady  did  not  know  his  name. 
Someone  was  certainly  interesting  him- 
self very  singularly  about  Cigole,  and 
someone  else,  or  else  the  same  person, 
was  very  much  interested  about  Beatrice. 
For  a  moment  he  thought  it  might  be 
Despard.  This,  however,  did  not  seem 
probable,  as  Desparu  would  have  written 
him  if  he  were  coming  to  town. 

Jeeply  perplexed,  and  almost  in  de- 
spair, Langhetti  left  the  house  and  drove 
home,  thinking  on  the  way  what  ought 
I )  be  done.  He  thought  he  would  wait 
till  evening,  and  perhaps  she  would  ap- 
pear. He  did  thus  wait,  and  in  a  fever 
of  excitement  and  suspense,  but  on  going 
to  the  lodging-house  again  there  was 
nothing  more  known  about  hfr. 

Leaving  this  he  drove  to  the  police- 
office.  It  seemed  to  him  now  that  she 
must  have  been  foully  dealt  with  in  some 
way.  He  could  think  of  no  one  but  Potts ; 
yet  how  Potts  could  manage  it  was  a 
mystery.  That  mystery  he  himself  could 
not  hope  to  unravel.  The  police  might. 
With  that  confidence  in  the  police  which 
is  Qf  mmon  to  all  Continentals  he  wi  iit 
and  made  known  his  troubles.  The 
officials  at  once  promised  to  make  enqui- 
ries, and  told  him  to  call  on  the  follow- 
ing evening. 

The  next  evening  he  went  there.  Tlie 
policeman  was  present  who  had  been  ;it 
the  place  when  Potts  met  Beatrice.  He 
told  the  whole  story— the  horses  runnin;; 
furiously,  the  screams  from  the  cab,  nnd 
the  appeal  of  Beatrice  for  help,  together 
with  her  final  acquiescence  in  the  will  of 
her  father. 

Langhetti  was  overwhelmed.  The  offi- 
cials evidently  believed  that  Potts  was  an 
injured  father,  and  showed  some  coldness 
to  Langhetti. 

"  He  is  her  father ;  what  better  could 
she  do  ?  "  asked  one. 


THEY   MEET    AGAIN 


237 


low  his  name, 
iteresting  hiin- 
xt  Cigole,  and 
;  same  person, 
about  Beatrice. 
;ht  it  might  be 
,  did  not  seem 
lid  have  written 

town. 

1  almost  in  de- 
house  and  drove 
vay  what  (>uglu 
t  he  would  wait 
i  she  would  ap- 
t.  and  in  a  fever 
nse,  but  on  going 
igain  there    was 
bout  hfr. 
ve  to  the  police- 
\m  now  that  she 
lealt  with  in  some 
■  no  one  but  Potts; 
manage  it  was  a 
he  himself  could 

he  police  mi^lit. 
the  police  which 

tinentals  he  wint 

Is    troubles.     Tlie 

d  to  make  enqui- 

:all  on  the  follow- 

Iwent  there.  The 
who  had  been  at 
Inet  Beatrice.  He 
Ihe  horses  running 
ifrom  the  cab,  and 
for  help,  togethei- 
lence  in  the  will  of 

[rhelmed.  The  offi- 
that  Potts  was  an 
ved  some  coldness 


"  Anything  would  be  better,"  said 
Langhetti  mournfully.  "  He  is  a  villain 
so  remorseless  that  she  had  to  fly.  Some 
friends  received  her.  She  went  to  get 
her  own  living  since  she  is  of  age.  Can 
nothing  be  done  to  rescue  her  ?  " 

"  Well,  she  Plight  begin  a  lawsuit ;  if 
she  really  is  of  age  he  cannot  hold  her. 
But  she  had  much  better  stay  with  him." 

Such  were  the  opinions  of  the  officials. 


They  courteously  granted  periiiisal^i  to 
Langhetti  to  take  the  policeman  to  the 
house. 

On  knocking,  an  old  woman  came  to 
the  door.  In  answer  to  his  enquiries  she 
stated  that  a  gentleman  had  been  living 
there  three  weeks,  but  that  on  the  arrival 
of  his  daughter  he  had  gone  home. 

"  When  did  he  leave  ?  " 

"  Yesterday  morning." 


CHAPTER  XLI 


THEY   MEET  AGAIN 


what  better  c 


oulii 


At  four  o'clock  on  the  morning  of 
Beatrice's  capture  Brandon  was  roused 
hy  a  rap  at  his  bedroom  door.  He  rose 
at  once,  and  slipping  on  his  dressing- 
gown,  opened  it.     A  man  entered. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Brandon. 

"  Something  hns  happened." 

"What?" 

"  She  didn't  get  home  last  night.  The 
landlady  is  sittmg  up  for  her,  and  is 
terribly  frightened." 

"  Did  you  make  any  enquiries?  " 

"  No,  sir ;  I  came  straight  here  in 
obedience   to  yoir   directions." 

"  Is  that  all  yo'i  know  ?  " 

"All." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Brandon  calmly, 
"  you  may  go." 

The  man  retired.  Brandon  sat  down 
and  buried  his  head  in  his  hands.  Such 
news  as  this  was  sufficient  to  overwhelm 
anyone.  The  ir..".i  knew  nothing  more 
than  this,  that  she  had  not  returned 
home  and  that  the  landlady  was  fright- 
ened. In  his  opinion  only  one  of  two 
things   could    have    happened :    cither 


Langhetti  had  taken  her  somewhere,  or 
she  had  been  abducted. 

A  thousand  fancies  followed  one 
another  in  quick  succession.  It  was  too 
early  as  yet  to  go  forth  to  make  enquiries, 
and  he  therefore  was  forced  to  sit  still 
and  form  conjectures  as  to  what  ought  to 
i)e  done  in  case  his  conje'  ture  might  be 
true.  Sitting  there,  he  took  a  rapid 
survey  of  all  the  possibilities  of  the  occa- 
sion, and  laid  liis  plans  accordingly. 

Brandon  had  feared  some  ,  -'lamity, 
and  with  this  fear  had  arranged  to  have 
someone  in  the  house  who  might  give  lim 
information.  The  information  whic  1  he 
most  dreaded  hai.  come  ;  it  had  come  too, 
in  the  midst  of  a  time  of  triumph^  when 
she  had  become  one  of  the  supreme  singers 
of  the  age,  and  had  gained  all  that  her 
warmest  admirer  might  desire  for  her. 

If  she  had  not  been  foully  dealt  with 
she  must  have  gone  with  Langhetti. 
But  if  so — where — and  why?  Wiiat 
possible  reason  might  Langhetti  have  for 
taking  her  away  ?  This  conjecture  was 
impossible. 


i  I 


238 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


1:9 
■J 


■iiiv 


Yet  if  this  was  impossible,  and  if  she 
had  not  gone  with  Langhetti,  with  whom 
could  she  have  gone  ?  If  not  a  friend, 
then  it  must  have  been  an  enemy.  But 
with  what  enemy?  There  was  only 
one. 

He  thought  of  Potts.  He  knew  that 
this  wretch  was  capable  of  any  villainy, 
and  would  not  hesitate  at  anything  to 
regain  possession  of  the  one  who  had 
fled  from  him.  Why  he  should  wish  to 
take  the  trouble  to  regain  possession  of 
her  except  out  of  pure  villainy,  he  could 
not  imagine. 

With  such  thoughts  as  these  the  time 
passed  heavily.  Six  o'clock  at  last  came, 
and  he  set  out  for  the  purpose  of  making 
enquiries.  He  went  first  to  the  theatre. 
Here,  after  some  trouble,  he  found  those 
who  had  the  place  in  charge,  and,  by 
questioning  them,  he  learned  that  Bea- 
trice had  left  by  herself  in  a  cab  for  her 
home,  and  that  Langhetti  had  remained 
some  time  later.  He  then  went  to 
Beatrice's  lodgings  to  question  the  land- 
lady. From  there  he  went  to  Langhetti's 
lodgings,  and  found  that  Langhetti  had 
come  home  about  one  o'clock  and  was 
not  yet  up. 

Beatrice,  therefore,  had  left  by  herself, 
and  had  not  gone  anywhere  with 
Langhetti.  She  had  not  rciurned  home. 
It  seemed  to  him  most  probable  that 
either  voluntarily  or  involuntarily  she 
had  come  under  the  control  of  Potts. 
What  to  do  under  these  circumstances 
was  now  the  question. 

One  course  seemed  to  him  the  most 
direct  and  certain ;  namely,  to  go  up  to 
Brandon  at  once  and  make  enquiries 
there.  From  the  letters  which  Philips 
had  sent  he  had  an  idea  of  the  doings 
of  Potts.  Other  sources  of  information 
had  also  been  secured.  It  was  not  his 
business  to  do  anything   more  than  to 


see  that  Beatrice    should  fall    into   no 
harm. 

By  ten  o'clock  he  had  acted  upon  this 
idea,  and  was  at  the  "  .Ilway  station  to 
take  the  express  train.  He  reached 
Brandon  village  about  dusk.  He  went 
to  the  inn  in  his  usual  disguise  as  Mr. 
Smithers,  and  sent  up  to  the  Hall  for  Mr. 
Potts. 

Potts  was  not  there.  He  then  sent 
for  Philips.  After  some  delay  Philips 
came.  His  usual  timidity  was  now  if 
possible  still  more  marked,  and  he  was 
at  first  too  embarrassed  to  speak. 

"  Where  is  Potts  ?  "  asked  Brandon 
abruptly. 

"  In  London,  sir." 

"  He  has  been  there  about  three  weeks, 
hasn't  he  ?  " 

••  Yes,  sir." 

"So  you  wrote  me.  You  thought 
when  he  went  that  he  was  going  to 
hunt  up  his  daughter  ?  " 

"So  I  conjectured." 

"  And  he  hasn't  got  back  yet  ?  " 

"  Net  yet." 

" His  he  written  any  word  ? " 

"  None  that  I  know  of." 

"  Did  you  hear  any  of  them  say  why  he 
went  to  get  her  ?  " 

"  Not  particularly ;  but  I  guessed  from 
what  they  said  that  he  was  afraid  of  hav- 
ing her  at  large." 

"Afraid.?     Why.?" 

"  Because  she  knevN'  some  secret  of 
theirs." 

"  Secret !  What  secret  ?  "  asked  Bran- 
don. 

"  You  know,  sir,  I  suppose,"  said 
Philips  meekly. 

Brandon  had  carried  Asgeelo  with  iiim 
as  he  was  often  in  the  habit  of  doing  on 
his  journeys.  After  his  interview  with 
Philips  he  stood  outside  on  the  veranda 
of  the  village  inn  for  some  time,  and  then 


THEY    MEET    AGAIN 


"39 


fall    into   no 

cted  upon  this 
way  station  to 
He  reached 
isk.  He  went 
lisguise  as  Mr. 
he  Hall  for  Mr. 

He  then  sent 
J  delay  Philips 
ty  was  now  if 
ed,  and  he  was 
,  to  speak, 
asked    Brandon 


lOut  three  weeks, 

,     You    thought 
e  was    going  to 

ick  yet  ?  " 

/ord?" 

them  say  why  he 

it  I  guessed  from 
Ivas  afraid  of  hav- 

some  secret  of 
[et  ?  "  asked  Bran- 


suppose, 


said 


lAsgeelo  with  him 
Ihabit  of  doing  on 
lis  interview  with 
le  on  the  veranda 
Ime  tinrte,  and  then 


went  around  through  the  village,  stopping  j 
at  a  number  of    houses.    Whatever  it 
was  that  he  was  engaged  in,  it  occupied 
liirn  for  several  hours,  and  he  did  not  gti 
back  to  the  inn  till  midnight. 

On  the  following  morning  he  sent  up 
to  the  Hall,  but  Potts  had  not  yet  re- 
turned. Philips  came  to  tell  him  that  he 
had  just  received  a  telegraphic  despatch 
informing  him  that  Potts  would  be  back 
that  day  at  one  o'clock.  This  intelligence 
at  last  seemed  to  promise  something 
definite. 

Brandon  found  enough  to  occupy  him 
during  the  morning  among  the  people  of 
the  neighborhood.  He  seemed  to  know 
everybody,  and  had  something  to  say  to 
everyone.  Yet  no  one  looked  at  him  or 
spoke  to  him  unless  he  took  the  initia- 
tive. Last  of  all,  he  went  to  the  tailor's, 
where  he  spent  an  hour. 

Asgeelo  had  been  left  at  the  inn,  and 
sat  there  upon  a  bench  outside,  appa- 
rently idle  and  aimless.  At  one  o'clock 
Brandon  returned  and  walked  up  and 
down  the  veranda. 

In  about  half  an  hour  his  attention  was 
attracted  by  the  sound  of  wheels.  It  was 
Potts'  barouche  which  came  rapidly  up 
the  road.  In  it  were  Potts  and  a  young 
lady. 

Brandon  stood  outside  of  the  veranda, 
on  the  steps,  in  such  a  position  as  to  be 
most  conspicuous,  and  waited  there  till 
the  carriage  should  reach  the  place.  Did 
his  heart  beat  faster  as  he  recognized 
that  form,  as  he  marked  the  settled 
despair  which  had  gathered  over  tiiat 
young  face — a  face  that  had  the  fixed  and 
unalterable  wretchedness  whicli  marks 
the  ideal  face  of  the  Mater  Dolorosa? 

Brandon  stood  in  such  a  way  that 
Potts  could  not  help  seeing  him.  He 
waved  his  arm  and  Potts  stopped  the 
carriage  at  once. 


Potts  was  seated  on  the  front  seat  and 
Beatrice  on  the  back  one.  Brandon 
walked  up  to  the  carriage  and  touched 
his  hat. 

"  Mr.  Smithers ! "  cried  Potts  with  his 
usual  volubility.  "  Dear  me,  sir !  This 
is  really  a  most  unexpected  pleasure, 
sir !  " 

While  Potts  spoke  Brandon  looked 
steadily  at  Beatrice,  who  cast  upon  him 
a  look  of  wonder.  She  then  sank  back 
in  her  seat;  but  her  eyes  were  still 
fastened  on  his  as  though  fascinated. 
Then,  beneath  the  marble  whiteness  of 
her  face  a  faint  tinge  appeared,  a  warm 
flush,  that  was  the  sign  of  hope  rising 
from  despair.  In  her  eyes  there  gleamed 
the  flash  of  recognition  ;  for  in  that  glance 
both  had  made  known  their  souls  to 
each  other.  In  her  mind  there  was  no 
perplexing  question  as  to  how  or  why  he 
came  here,  or  wherefore  he  wore  that 
disguise ;  the  one  thought  that  she  had 
was  the  consciousness  that  he  was  here — 
here  before  her. 

All  this  took  place  in  an  instant,  and 
Potts,  who  was  talking,  did  not  notice  the 
hurried  glance ;  or  if  he  did,  saw  in  it 
nothing  but  a  casual  look  cast  by  one 
stranger  upon   another. 

"  I  arrived  here  yesterday,"  said  Bran- 
don. "  I  wished  to  see  you  about  a 
matter  of  very  little  importance  perhaps 
to  you,  but  it  is  one  which  is  of  interest 
to  me.  But  I  am  detaining  you.  By  the 
way,  I  am  somewhat  in  a  hurry,  and  if 
this  1  idy  will  excuse  me  I  will  drive  up 
wi'.n  you  to  the  Hall,  s»o  as  to  lose  no 
time." 

"  Delighted,  sir,  delighted  !  "  cried 
Potts.  "  Allow  me,  Mr.  Smithers,  to  in- 
troduce you  to  my  daughter." 

Brandon  held  out  his  hand.  Beatrice 
held  out  hers.  It  was  cold  as  ice,  but 
the  fierce  thrill    that  shot  through   her 


*  I 'I 


240 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


frame  at  the  touch  of  his  feverish  hand 
brought  with  it  such  an  ecstasy  that 
Beatrice  thought  it  was  worth  while  to 
have  undergone  the  horror  of  the  past 
twenty-four  hours  for  the  joy  of  this  one 
moment. 

Brandon  stepped  into  the  carriage  and 
seated  iiimself  by  her  side.  Potts  sat 
opposite.  He  touched  her.  He  could 
iiear  her  breathing.  How  many  months 
had  passed  since  they  sat  so  near 
together !  What  sorrows  had  they  not 
endured  !  Now  they  were  side  by  side, 
and  for  a  moment  they  forgot  that  their 
bitterest  enemy  sat  before  them. 

There,  before  them,  was  the  man  who 
was  not  only  a  deadly  enemy  to  each, 
but  who  made  it  impossible  for  them  to 
be  more  to  one  another  than  they  now 
were.  Yet  for  a  time  they  forgot  this  in 
the  joy  of  the  ecstatic  meeting.  At  the 
gate  Potts  got  out  and  excused  himself  to 
Brandon,  saying  that  he  would  be  up 
directly. 

"  Entertain  this  gentleman  till  I  come," 
said  he  to  Beatrice,  "  for  he  is  a  great 
friend  of  mine." 

Beatrice  said  nothing,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  she  could  not  speak. 

They  drove  on.  Oh,  joy  !  that  baleful 
presence  was  for  a  moment  removed. 
The  driver  saw  nothing  as  he  drove  under 
the  overarching  elms — the  elms  under 
which  Brandon  had  sported  in  his  boy- 
hood. He  saw  not  the  long,  fervid 
glance  that  they  cast  at  one  another,  in 
which  each  seemed  to  absorb  all  the 
being  of  the  other ;  he  saw  not  the  close 
clasped  hands  with  which  they  clung  to 
one  another  now  as  though  they  would 
thus  cling  to  each  other  forever  and  pre- 
vent separation.  He  saw  not  the  swift, 
wild  movement  of  Brandon  when  for  one 
instant  he  flung  his  arm  around  Beatrice 
and  pressed  her  to  his  heart.     He  heard 


not  the  beating  of  that  strong  heart ;  he 
heard  not  the  low  sigh  of  rapture  with 
which  but  for  one  instant  the  head  of 
Beatrice  sank  upon  her  lover's  breast.  It 
was  but  for  an  instant.  Then  she  sat 
upright  again  and  their  hands  sought 
each  other,  thus  clinging,  thus  speakinjj 
by  a  voice  which  was  fully  intelligible  to 
each,  which  told  how  each  felt  in  the 
presence  of  the  other  love  unutterable, 
rapture  beyond  expression. 

They  alighted  from  the  carriage, 
Beatrice  led  the  way  into  the  drawinj; 
room.  No  one  was  there.  Brandon 
went  into  a  recess  of  one  of  the  windows 
which  commanded  a  view  of  the  Park. 

"  What  a  beautiful  view  !  "  said  he  in  a 
conventional  voice. 

She  came  up  and  stood  beside  him. 

"  Oh,  my  darling  !  Oh,  my  darling  ! " 
he  cried,  over  and  over  again  ;  and  fiinj;- 
ing  his  arms  around  her  he  covered  lui 
face  with  burning  kisses.  Her  wiiole 
being  seemed  in  that  supreme  moment  to 
be  absorbed  in  his.  All  consciousness 
of  any  other  thing  than  this  unspeakable 
joy  was  lost  to  her.  Before  all  otiiois 
she  was  lofty,  high-soulcd,  serene,  self- 
possessed — with  him  she  was  nothin},\ 
she  lost  herself  in   him. 

"Do  not  fear,  my  soul's  darling,"  said 
he  ;  "  no  harm  shall  come.  My  power  is 
everywhere — even  in  this  house.  All  in 
the  village  are  mine.  When  my  blow 
falls  you  shall  be  saved." 

She  shuddered. 

"  You  will  leave  me  here  ?  " 

"  Heavens  !  I  must,"  he  groaned  ;  "  we 
are  the  sport  of  circumstances.  Oh,  my 
darling  I "  he  continued,  "  you  know  my 
story,  and  my  vengeance." 

"  I  know  it  all,"  she  whispered.  "  I 
would  wish  to  die  if  I  could  die  by  your 
hand." 

"  I  will  save  you.    Oh,  love— oh,  soul 


THEY    MEET    AGAIN 


341 


strong  heart :  he 
of  rapture  with 
mt  the  head  of 
)ver's  breast.  It 
.  Then  she  sat 
T  hands  sought 
g,  thus  speaking 
\\y  inteUigible  to 
each  felt  in  (lie 
love  unutterable, 

sion. 

1  the  carriage, 
nto  the  drawing 
there.  Brandon 
ne  of  the  windows 
ew  of  the  Park, 
lew ! "  said  he  in  a 

lod  beside  him. 
Oh,  my  darling  !  " 
•  again  ;  and  fling- 
er  he  covered  licr 
sses.      Her  wliole 
preme  moment  to 
All  consciousnoss 
this  unspeakable 
Before   all   others 
ulcd,  serene,  silf- 
she   was  nothing, 

m. 

Ill's  darling,"  said 

me.     My  power  is 

his  house.    AH  i" 
When  my   blow 

ved." 

here?" 

•  he  groaned  ;  "  we 
mstances.  Oh,  my 
d,  •*  you  know  my 

ice. 

he  whispered.    "I 

I  could  die  by  your 

Oh,  love— oh,  soul 


of  mine— my  arms  are  around  you ! 
You  are  watched— but  watched  by  me." 

"  You  do  not  know,"  she  sighed. 
"  Alas !  your  father's  voice  must  be 
obeyed,  and  your  vengeance  must  be 
taken." 

"  Fear  not,"  said  he ;  "  !   will  guard 

ft 

you. 

She  answered  nothing.  Could  she  con- 
fide in  his  assurance  ?  She  could  not. 
She  thought  with  horror  of  the  life  before 
her.  What  could  Brandon  do  ?  She 
could   not  imagine. 

They  stood  thus  in  silence  for  a  long 
time.  Each  felt  that  this  was  their  last 
meeting,  and  each  threw  all  life  and  all 
thought  into  the  rapture  of  this  long  and 
ecstatic  embrace.  After  this  the  impas- 
sable gulf  must  reopen.  She  was  of  the 
blood  of  the  accursed,  "^hey  must 
separate   forever. 

He  kissed  her.  He  pressed  her  a 
thousand  times  to  his  heart.  His  burn- 
ing kisses  forced  a  new  and  feverish  life 
into  her,  which  roused  all  her  nature. 
Never  before  had  he  dared  so  to  fling 
open  all  his  soul  to  her ;  never  before 
had  he  so  clasped  her  to  his  heart ;  but 
now  this  moment  was  a  break  in  the 
agony  of  a  long  separation — a  short 
interval  which  must  soon  end  and  give 
way  to  the  misery  which  had  preceded 
it— and  so  he  yielded  to  the  rapture  of 
the  hour,   and   defied   the   future. 

The  moments  extended  themselves. 
They  were  left  thus  for  a  longer  time  than 
they  hoped.  Potts  did  not  come.  They 
were  still  clinging  to  one  another.  She 
had  flung  her  arms  around  him  in  the 
anguish  of  her  unspeakable  love,  he  had 
clasped  her  to  his  wildly  throbbing  heart, 
and  he  was  straining  her  there  recklessly 
and  despairingly,  when  suddenly  a  harsh 
voice  burst  upon  their  ears. 

"  The  devil ! " 


Beatrice  did  not  hear  it.  Brandon  did, 
and  turned  his  face.  Potts  stood  before 
them. 

"  Mr.  Potts  I "  said  he,  as  he  still  held 
Beatrice  close  to  his  heart,  "  this  poor 
young  lady  is  in  wretched  health.  She 
nearly  fainted.  I  had  to  almost  carry 
her  to  the  window.  Will  you  be  good 
enough  to  open  it,  so  as  to  give  her  some 
air.'  Is  she  subject  to  these  faints? 
Poor  child  ! "  he  said  ;  "  the  air  of  this 
place  ought  surely  to  do  you  good.  I 
sympathize  with  you  most  deeply, 
Mr.    Potts." 

"  Siie's  sickly — that's  a  fact,"  said 
Potts.  "  I'm  very  sorry  that  you  have 
had  so  much  trouble — I  hope  you'll  ex- 
cuse me.  I  only  thought  that  she'd  en- 
tertain you,  for  she's  very  clever.  Has 
all  the  accomplishments " 

"  Perhaps  you'd  better  call  someone  to 
take  care  of  her,"  interrupted  Brandon. 

"Oh,  I'll  fetch  someone.  I'm  sorry  it 
happened  so.  I  hope  you  won't  blame 
me,  sir,"  said  Potts  humbly,  and  he  hur- 
ried out  of  the  room. 

Beatrice  had  not  moved.  She  heard 
Brandon  speak  to  someone,  and  at  first 
gave  herself  up  for  lost,  but  in  an  instant 
she  understood  the  full  meaning  of  his 
words.  To  his  admirable  presence  of 
mind  she  added  her  own.  She  did  not 
move,  but  allowed  her  head  to  rest  where 
it  was,  feeling  a  delicious  joy  in  the 
thought  that  Potts  was  looking  on  and 
was  utterly  deceived.  When  he  left  to 
call  a  servant  she  raised  her  head  and 
gave  Brandon  a  last  look  expressive  of 
her  deathless,  her  unutterable  love. 
Again  and  again  he  pressed  her  to  his 
heart.  Then  the  noise  of  servants  com- 
ing in  roused  him.  He  gently  placed  her 
on  a  sofa,  and  supported  her  with  a  grave 
and  solemn  face. 

"  Here,  Mrs.  Compton,  take  charge  of 


34' 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


is 

Si'' 


her,"  said  Potts.    "  She's  been  trying  to 
faint." 

Mrs.  Compton  came  up,  and  kneeling 
down  kissed  Beatrice's  hands.  She  said 
nothing. 

"  Oughtn't  she  to  have  a  doctor  ?  "  said 
Brandon. 

"  Oh,  no — she'll  get  over  it.  Take  her 
to  her  room,  Mrs.  Compton. ' 

"  Can  the  poor  child  walk  ? "  asked 
Brandon. 

Beatrice  rose.  Mrs.  Compton  asked 
her  to  take  her  arm.  She  did  so,  and 
leaning  heavily  upon  it,  walked  away. 

"  She  seems  very  delicate,"  said  Bran- 
don. "  I  did  not  know  that  you  had 
a  daughter." 

Potts  sighed. 

"  I  have,"  said  he,  "  to  my  sorrow." 

"  To  your  sorrow  !  "  said  Brandon,  with 
exquisitely  .imulated  sympathy. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  other.  "  I  wouldn't 
tell  it  to  everyone— but  you,  Mr.  Smithers, 
are  different  from  most  people.  You  see 
I  have  led  a  roving  life.  I  had  to  leave 
her  out  in  China  for  many  years  with  a 
female  guardian.  I  suppose  she  was  not 
very  well  taken  care  of.  At  any  rate,  she 
got  acquainted  out  there  with  a  strolling 
Italian  vagabond,  a  drum-majot  in  one  of 
the  regiments,  named  Langhetti,  and 
this  villain  gained  her  affections  by  his 
hellish  arts.  He  knew  that  I  was  rich, 
and,  like  an  unprincipled  adventurer, 
tried  to  get  her,  hoping  to  get  a  fortune. 
I  did  not  know  anything  about  this  till 
after  her  arrival  home.  I  sent  for  her 
some  time  ago  and  she  came.  From  the 
first  she  was  very  sulky.  She  did  not 
treat  me  like  a  daughter  at  all.  On  one 
occasion  she  actually  al)used  me  and 
called  me  names  to  my  face.  She  called 
me  a  Thug  !  What  do  you  tliinkof  that, 
Mr.  Smithers  ?  " 

The  other  said  nothing,  but  there  was 


in  his  face  a  horror  which  Potts  consid- 
ered as  directed  toward  his  unnatural 
offspring. 

"  She  was  discontented  here,  though 
I  let  her  have  everything.  I  found  out 
in  the  end  all  about  't.  At  last  she  actu- 
ally ran  away.  She  joined  this  infamous 
Langhetti,  whom  she  had  discovered  in 
some  way  or  other.  They  lived  togiether 
for  some  time,  and  then  went  to  London, 
where  she  got  a  situation  as  an  actress. 
You  can  imagine  by  that,"  said  Potts, 
with  sanctimonious  horror,  "  how  low  she 
had  fallen. 

"  Well,  I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  I  was 
afraid  to  make  a  public  demand  for  licr 
throjgh  the  law,  for  then  it  all  would  get 
into  the  papers ;  it  would  be  an  awful  dis- 
grace, and  the  whole  county  would  know 
it.  So  I  waited,  and  a  few  weeks  ago 
I  went  to  London.  A  chance  occurred  at 
last  which  threw  her  in  my  way.  I  pointed 
out  to  her  the  awful  nature  of  the  life  she 
was  leading,  and  offered  to  forgive  her  all 
if  she  would  only  come  back.  The  poor 
girl  consented,  and  here  she  is.  But  I'm 
very  much  afraid,"  said  Potts  in  conclu- 
sion, with  a  deep  sigh,  "  that  her  consti- 
tution is  broken  up.  She's  very  feeble." 
Brondon  said  nothing. 
'*  Excuse  me  for  troubling  you  with  my 
domestic  affairs ;  but  I  thought  I  ought 
to  explain,  for  you  have  had  such  trouble 
with  her  yourself." 

"  Ob,  don't  mention  it.  I  quite  pitied 
the  poor  child,  1  assure  you ;  and  I  sin- 
cerely hope  that  the  seclusion  of  this 
place,  combined  with  the  pure  sea  air, 
may  restore  her  spirits  and  invigorate  her 
in  mind  as  well  as  in  body.  And  now, 
Mr.  Potts,  I  will  mention  the  little  mat- 
ter that  brought  me  here.  I  have  had 
business  in  Cornwall,  and  was  on  my 
way  home  when  I  received  a  letter  sum- 
moning me  to  America.     I  may  have  to 


LANGHETTIS   ATTEMPT 


343 


\  Potts  consid- 
,   his  unnatural 

:d  here,  though 
g.     I  found  out 
M  last  she  actu- 
ed  this  infamous 
ad  discovered  in 
ey  lived  togetlier 
went  to  London, 
m  as  an  actress, 
that,"  said  Potls, 
or,  "  how  low  slie 

what  to  do.  Iwas 
,c  demand  for  her 
;n  it  all  would  get 
Id  be  an  awful  dis- 
Dunty  would  know 
a  few  weeks  ago 
chance  occurred  at 
my  way.  I  pointed 
iture  of  the  life  she 
:d  to  forgive  her  all 
e  back.    The  poor 
re  she  is.    But  I'm 
Potts  in  conclu- 
"  that  her  consti- 
She's  very  feeble." 

ubling  you  with  my 

I  thought  I  ought 

Ire  had  such  trouble 


it.     I  quite  pitied 
e  you;  and  I  sin- 


seclusion  of  this 
the  pure  sea  air, 
s  and  invigorate  her 
body.  And  now, 
ition  the  little  mat- 
here.  I  have  had 
11,  and  was  on  my 
Lived  a  letter  suiii- 
Ica.     I  may  have  to 


go  to  California.  I  have  a  very  honest 
servant,  whom  I  have  quite  a  strong  re- 
gard for,  and  I  am  anxious  to  put  him  in 
some  good  country  house  till  I  get  back. 
I'm  afraid  to  trust  him  in  London,  and 
I  can't  take  him  with  me.  He  is  a  Hindoo, 
but  speaks  English  and  can  do  almost 
anything.  I  at  once  remembered  you, 
especially  as  you  were  close  by  me,  and 
thought  that  in  your  large  establishment 
you  might  find  a  place  for  him.  How 
is  it  ?  " 

"  My  dear  sir,  I  shall  be  proud  and 
happy.  I  should  like,  above  all  things,  to 
have  a  man  here  who  is  recommended  by 
one  like  you.  The  fact  is,  my  servants 
are  all  miserable,  and  a  good  one  cannot 
often  be  had.  I  shall  consider  it  a  favor 
if  I  can  get  him." 

"Well,  that  is  all  arranged — I  have 
a  regard  for  him,  as  I  said  before, 
and  want  to  have  him  in  a  pleasant 
situation.     His    name    is    Asgeelo,    but 


we  are  in  the  habit  of  calling  him 
Cato " 

"  Cato  !  a  very  good  name.  Where 
is  he  now  ?  " 

"  At  the  hotel.  I  will  send  him  to  you 
at  once,"  said  Brandon,  rising. 

"  The  sooner  t  he  better,"  returned  Potts. 

"  By  the  way,  my  junior  speaks  very 
encouragingly  about  the  prospects  of  the 
Brandon  Bank " 

•'Do°s  he?"  cried  Potts  gleefully. 
"  Well,  I  t'o  believe  we're  going  ahead  of 
everything." 

"That's  right.  Boldness  is  the  true 
way  to  success." 

"  Oh,  never  fear.   We  are  bold  enough." 

"  Good.  But  I  am  hurried,  and  I  must 
go.  I  will  send  Asgeelo  up,  and  give  him 
a  letter." 

With  these  words  Brandon  bowed  an 
adieu  and  departed.  Before  evening 
Asgeelo  was  installed  as  one  of  the 
servants. 


CHAPTER  XLII 


LANGHETTI'S   ATTEMPT 


Two  days  after  Brandon's  visit  to  Potts 
Langhetti  reached  the  village. 

A  searching  examination  in  London 
had  led  him  to  believe  that  Beatrice  might 
now  be  sought  for  at  Brandon  Hall.  The 
police  could  do  nothing  for  him.  He 
had  no  right  to  her.  If  she  was  of  age, 
she  was  her  own  mistress,  and  must  make 
application  herself  for  her  safety  and 
deliverance  ;  if  she  was  under  age,  then 
she  must  show  that  she  was  treated  with 
cruelty.  None  of  these  things  could  be 
done,  and  Langhetti  despaired  of  accom- 
plishing anything. 


The  idea  of  her  being  once  more  in  the 
power  of  a  man  like  Potts  was  frightful 
to  him.  This  idea  filled  his  mind  con- 
tinually, to  the  exclusion  of  all  other 
thoughts.  His  opera  was  forgotten. 
One  great  horror  stood  before  him,  and 
all  else  became  of  no  account.  The  only 
thing  for  him  to  do  was  to  try  tc  save  her. 
He  could  find  no  way,  and  therefore  de- 
termined to  go  and  see  Potts  himself. 

It  was  a  desperate  undertaking.  From 
Beatrice's  descriptions  he  had  an  idea  of 
the  life  from  which  she  had  fled,  and  other 
things  had  given  him  a  true  iciea  of  the 


244 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


^••» 


3- 

8: 


k: 


Ik 


?vi.i. ■■.:•. 

.  I     .      i 


character  of  Potts.  lie  knew  that  there 
was  scarcely  any  hope  before  him.  Yet 
he  went,  to  satisfy  himself  by  making  a 
last  effort. 

He  was  hardly  the  man  to  deal  with 
one  like  Potts.  Sensitive,  high-toned, 
passionate,  impetuous  in  his  feelings,  he 
could  not  command  that  calmness  which 
was  the  first  essential  in  such  an  inter- 
view. Besides,  he  was  broken  down 
by  anxiety  and  want  of  sleep.  His  sor- 
ro'v  for  Beatrice  had  disturbed  all  his 
thou},!.LS.  Food  and  sleep  were  alike 
aoominable  to  him.  His  fine-strung 
nerves  and  driicate  organization,  in  which 
every  feeling  had  been  rendeied  more 
rute  fiy  his  mode  of  life,  were  of  that 
kind  which  could  feel  intensely  wherever 
the  affections  were  concerned.  His 
material  frame  was  too  weak  for  the 
presence  of  such  an  ardent  soul.  When- 
ever any  emotion  of  unusual  power  ap- 
peared he  SAnk  rapidly. 

So  now,  feverish,  emaciated,  excited  to 
an  intense  degree,  lie  appeared  in  Bran- 
don to  coniront  a  roo".,  unemotional 
villain,  who  scarcely  ever  lost  his  pres- 
ence of  mind.  Such  a  contest  could 
scarcely  be  an  equal  one.  What  could 
he  bring  forward  which  could  in  any  way 
affect  such  a  man  ?  He  had  some  ideas 
in  his  own  mind  which  he  imagined 
might  be  of  service,  and  trusted  more  to 
impulse  than  anything  else.  He  wei;t 
up  early  in  the  morning  to  Brandon 
Hall. 

Potts  was  at  home,  and  did  not  keep 
Langhetti  long  waiting. 

There  was  a  vast  contrast  between 
these  tv/o  men — the  one  coarse,  fat, 
vulgar,  and  strong;  the  other  refined, 
slender,  spiritual,  and  delicate,  w:th 
his  Iruge  eyes  burning  'n  their  deep 
sockets,  and  a  stran[,e  mystery  in  his 
face. 


"  I  am  Paolo  Langhetti,"  said  he 
abruptly — "the  manager  of  the  Covent 
Garden  Theatre." 

"  You  are,  are  you  ?  "  answered  Potts 
rudely ;  "  then  the  sooner  you  get  out 
of  this  the  better.  The  devil  himself 
couldn't  be  more  impudent.  I  have  just 
saved  my  daughter  from  your  clutches, 
and  I'm  going  to  pay  you  off,  too,  my 
fine  fellow,  before  long." 

"  Your  daughter  !  "  said  Langhetti. 
"  What  she  is,  and  who  she  is,  you  very 
well  know.  If  the  dead  could  speak  they 
would  tell  v  different  story." 

"  What  the  devil  do  you  mean,"  cried 
Potts,  "  by  the  dead  ?  At  any  rate 
you  are  a  fool ;  for  very  naturally  the 
dead  can't  speak ;  but  what  conci  ii 
that  has  with  my  t.i'.ughter  I  den  i 
I  know.  Mind,  you  are  playing  a  dan- 
!  ^erot' ,  game   in   trying  to   bully   me." 

Pi  tls  spoke  fiercely  and  menacin{;ly. 
Langhetti's  impetuous  soul  kindled  to 
?.  new  fervor  at  this  insulting  language. 
He  stretched  out  his  long,  thin  haiul 
toward    Potts,  and   said  : 

"  I  hold  your  life  and  fortune  in  my 
hand.     Give  up  that  girl  whom  you  call 
!  your  daughter." 

Potts  stood  for  a  moment  staring. 

"  The  devil  you  do  !  "  he  cried  at  Inst. 
"Come,  I  call  that  good,  rich,  racy! 
Will  your  Sublime  Excellency  have  the 
kindness  to  explain  yourself?  If  my  life 
is  in  your  hand  it's  in  a  devilish  lean  and 
weak  one.  It .' trikes  me  you've  got  some 
kink  in  your  brdin — some  notio.i  or  other, 
Out  with  it,  and  let  us  see  what  you're 
driving  at ! " 

"  Do  you  know  a  man  named  Cigolc? ' 
said  Langhetti. 

"  Cigcie  !  "  replied  Potts,  after  a  pause, 
ill  which  he  had  stired  hard  at  Linghctii; 
•'  well,  what  if  I  lo  ?  Perhaps  1  do,  and 
perhaps  I  don't." 


LANGHETTI  S    A TTEMl'T 


245 


hetti,"    said    he 
r  of  the  Covent 

answered  Potts 
ner  you  get  out 
he  devil  himself 
:lent.  I  have  just 
m  your  clutches, 

you   off,  too,  luy 

It 

'  said  Langhetti. 
10  she  is,  you  veiy 
:1  could  speak  tliey 

Lory." 
you  mean,"  cried 
I?      At    any    rate 
very  naturally  tlic 
)Ut    what    conci  u 
c.c\ughter    1    il'J'i  t 
le    playing   a  dati- 
ng to  bully  me." 
ly  and   meiiacinj;ly. 
IS    soul   kindled  t'> 
insulting  languai;e. 
is   long,   thin   haiul 

aid  : 

and  fortune  in  my 

girl  whom  you  call 

loment  staring. 

!  "  he  cried  at  Inst. 

good,   rich,  racy! 

excellency  have  the 

'ourself  ?     If  "iy  lif^: 

a  devilish  lean  and 

me  you've  got  some 

,ome  notioiior  other. 

us  see  what  you're 


lan 


named  Cigole? 


Potts,  after  a  pause, 
pd  hard  at  L-^nglictii; 
Perhaps  1  do,  and 


"  He  is  in  my  power,"  said  Langhetti 
veliemently. 

"Much  good  may  he 'do  you  then,  for 
I'm  sure  when  he  was  in  my  power  he 
never  did  any  good  to  me." 

"  He  will  do  good  in  this  case,  at  any 
rate,"  said  Langhetti,  with  an  effort  at 
calmness.  "  He  was  connected  with 
you  in  a  deed  which  you  must  remem- 
ber, and  can  tell  to  the  world  what  he 
knows." 

"  Well,  what  if  he  does  ?  "  said  Potts. 

"  He  will  tell,"  cried  Langhetti  excit- 
edly, "the  true  story  of  the  Despard 
murder." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Potts,  "  now  the  murder's 
out.  That's  what  I  thought.  Don't  you 
suppose  I  saw  through  you  when  you 
first  began  to  speak  so  mysteriously  ?  I 
knew  that  you  had  learned  some  wonder- 
ful story,  and  that  you  were  going  to  trot 
it  out  at  the  right  time.  But  if  you  think 
you're  going  to  bully  me  you'll  find  it 
liard  work." 

"  Cigole  is  in  my  power,"  said  Lan- 
glietti   fiercely. 

"And  so  you  think  I  am,  too  ?  "  sneered 
Tolts. 

"  Partly  so." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Because  he  was  an  accomplice  of 
yours  in  the  Despard  murder." 

"So  he  says,  no  doubt;  but  who'll  be- 
lieve him  ?  " 

"  He  is  going  to  turn  Queen's  evi- 
(lei   e,"  said  Langhetti  solemnly. 

"Quteiii  evidence!"  returned  Potts 
contemptuously,  "  and  what's  his  evidence 
worth— the  evidence  of  a  man  like  that 
against  a  gentleman  of  unblemished 
character." 

"He  will  be  able  to  show  what  the 
character  of  that  gentleman  is,"  replied 
Linghetti. 
'  Who  will  believe  him  ?  " 


"  No  one  can  lielp  it." 

"  You  believe  him,  no  doubt.  You  and 
he  are  both  Italians — both  dear  friends — 
and  both  enemies  of  mine  ;  but  suppose 
I  prove  to  the  world  conclusively  that 
Cigole  is  such  a  scoundrel  that  his  testi- 
mony is  worthless?" 

"  You  can't,"  cried  Langhetti  furiously. 

Potts  cast  a  look  of  contempt  at  him. 

"  Can't  I !  "  he  resumed  :  "  How  very 
simple,  how  confiding  you  must  be,  my 
dear  Langhetti !  Let  me  explain  my 
meaning.  You  get  up  a  wild  charge 
against  a  gentleman  of  character  and 
position  about  a  murder.  In  the  first 
place,  you  seem  to  forget  that  the  real 
murderer  has  long  since  been  punished. 
That  miserable  devil  of  a  Malay  was 
very  properly  convicted  at  Manilla,  and 
hanged  there.  It  was  twenty  years  ago. 
What  English  court  would  consider  the 
case  again  after  a  calm  and  impartial 
Spanish  court  had  settled  it  finally,  and 
punished  the  criminal  ?  They  did  so  at 
the  time  when  the  case  was  fresh,  and 
I  came  forth  honored  and  triumphant. 
You  now  bring  forward  a  man  who,  you 
hint,  will  make  statements  against  me. 
Suppose  he  does  }  What  then  }  Why, 
I  'ill  show  what  this  man  is.  And 
you,  my  dear  Langhetti,  will  be  tli°  first 
one  whom  I  will  bring  up  against  him. 
I  will  bring  you  up  under  oath,  and  make 
you  tell  how  this  Cigole — this  man  who 
testifies  against  me — once  made  a  certain 
testimony  in  Sicily  against  a  certain  Lan- 
ghetti, senior,  by  which  that  certain  Lan- 
ghetti, senior,  was  betrayed  to  the  govern- 
ment and  was  saved  only  by  the  folly  of 
two  Englishmen,  one  of  v.hom  was  this 
same  Despard.  I  will  show  that  this 
Langhetti,  senior,  was  your  father,  and 
that  the  son,  inst.^ad  of  avenging,  or  at 
any  rate  resenting,  Ms  father's  wrong,  is 
now  the  bosom  frieno  of  his  father's  in- 


34^ 


CORD    AND   CRKKSF, 


w 

^: 

SSI 


tended  murderer — that  he  has  urged  him 
on  against  me.  I  will  show,  my  dear 
Langhetti,  how  you  have  led  a  roving 
life,  and,  when  a  drum-major  at  Hong 
Kong,  won  the  affections  of  my  daugh- 
ter ;  how  you  followed  her  here,  and  se- 
duced her  away  from  a  kind  father ;  how 
at  infinite  risk  I  regained  her;  how  you 
came  to  me  with  audacious  threats  ;  and 
how  only  the  dread  of  further  scandal, 
and  my  own  anxious  love  for  my  daugh- 
ter, prevented  me  from  handing  you  over 
to  the  authorities.  I  will  prove  you  to 
be  a  scoundrel  of  the  vilest  description, 
and,  after  such  proofs  as  this,  what  do 
you  think  would  be  the  verdict  of  an 
English  jury,  or  of  any  judge  in  any  land; 
and  what  do  you  think  would  be  your 
own  fate  ?    Answer  me  that." 

Potts  spoke  with  savage  vehemence. 
The  frightful  truth  flashed  at  once  across 
Langhetti's  mind  that  Potts  had  it  in  his 
power  here  to  show  all  this  to  the  world. 
He  was  overwhelmed.  He  had  never 
conceived  the  possibility  of  this.    Potts 


watched  him  silently,  with  a  sneer  on  his 
face. 

"  Don't  you  think  tiiat  you  had  better 
go  and  comfort  yourself  with  your  deai- 
friend  Cigole,  your  father's  intended  mur- 
derer? "  said  he  at  length.  "Cigole  told 
me  all  about  this  long  ago.  He  told  tne 
many  things  about  his  life  which  would 
be  slightly  damaging  to  his  character  as 
a  witness,  but  I  don't  mind  telling  you 
that  the  worst  thing  against  him  in  Eng- 
lish eyes  is  his  betrayal  of  your  father. 
But  this  seems  to  have  been  a  very  slight 
matter  to  you.  It's  odd,  too;  I've  al- 
ways supposed  that  Italians  understood 
what  vengeance  means." 

Langhetti's  face  bore  an  expression 
of  agony  which  he  could  n(>t  conceal. 
Every  word  of  Potts  stung  him  to  the  soul. 
He  stood  for  some  time  in  silence.  At  last, 
without  a  word,  he  walked  out  of  the  room. 

His  brain  reeled.  He  staggered  rather 
than  walked.  Potts  looked  after  liini 
with  a  smile  of  triumph.  He  left  the  Hail 
and  returned  to  the  village. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 


THE  STRANGER 


A  FEW  weeks  after  Langhetti's  visit 
Potts  had  a  new  visitor  at  the  bank. 
The  stranger  entered  the  bank  parlor 
noiselessly,  and  stood  quietly  waiting  for 
P'jtts  to  be  disengaged.  That  worthy 
was  making  some  entries  in  a  small  mem- 
orandum book.  Turning  his  head,  he 
saw  the  new-comer.  Potts  looked  sur- 
prised, and  the  stranger  said,  in  a  pecu- 
liar voice,  somewhat  gruff  and  hesitating : 

"Mr.  Potts?" 


"  Yes,"  said  Potts,  looking  hard  at  his 
visitor. 

He  was  a  man  of  singular  aspect, 
His  hair  was  long,  parted  in  the  middle, 
and  straight.  He  wore  dark  colored 
spectacles.  A  thick  black  beard  ran 
under  his  chin.  His  linen  was  not  over- 
clean,  and  he  wore  a  long  surtout  coat. 

"  I  belong  to  the  firm  of  Bigelow,  Hig- 
ginson  &  Co.,  Solicitors,  London— I  am 
the  Co." 


THE    STRANOER 


M7 


I  a  sneer  on  bis 

you  had  better 
witb  your  dear 
s  intended  muv- 
1.     "Cigoletold 
ro.     He  told  me 
'ife  wbich  would 
his  cbaracter  as 
^ind  telling  you 
linst  bim  in  En^- 
A  of  your  father. 
been  a  very  sliglu 
dd.  too ;  I've  al- 
alians  understood 

t* 

t 

re  an    expression 
ould   not  conceal, 
ing  bim  to  the  soul. 
in  silence.   At  last. 
redout  of  the  room. 
le  staggered  rather 
looked  after  him 
h.    He  left  the  Hall 

village. 


looking  bard  at  his 

of    singular    aspect. 

arted  in  the  nVuUlle, 
■wore  dark  colored 
\  black  beard  ran 
Is  linen  was  not  over- 
long  surtout  coat. 

Irm  of  Bigelow.  Hig- 

litors,  London-I  am 


••Well?" 

"  The  business  about  which  I  have 
come  IS  one  of  some  .importance.  Are 
wc  secure  from   interruption?" 

"Yes,"  said  Potts,  "  as  much  as  I<:are 
about  being.  I  don't  know  anything  in 
particular  that  I  care  about  locking  the 
doors  for." 

"  Well,  you  know  best,"  said  the 
stranger.  "  The  business  upon  which  I 
have  come  concerns  you  somewhat,  but 
your  son  principally." 

Potts  started,  and  looked  with  eager 
enquiry  at  the  stranger. 

"  It  is  such  a  serious  case,"  said  the 
latter,  "that  my  seniors  thought,  before 
taking  any  steps  in  the  matter,  it  would 
be  best  to  consult  you  privately." 

"Well,"  returned  Potts  with  a  frown, 
"  what  is  this  wonderful  case  ?  " 

"  Forgery,"  said  the  stranger. 

Potts  started  to  his  feet  with  a  ghastly 
face,  and  stood  speechless  for  some  time. 

"  Do  you  know  who  you're  talking 
to.'  "  said  he  at  last. 

"John  Potts  of  Brandon  Hall,  I  pre- 
sume," said  the  stranger  coolly.  "  My 
business  concerns  him  somewhat,  but  his 
son  still  more." 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean?" 
growled  Potts  in  a  savage  tone. 

"  Forgery,"  said  the  stranger.  "  It  is 
an  English  word,  I  believe.  Forgery,  in 
which  your  son  was  chief  agent.  Have  I 
made  myself  understood  ?  " 

Potts  looked  at  him  again,  and  then 
slowly  went  to  the  door,  locked  it,  and 
put  the  key  in  his  pocket. 

"That's  right,"  said  the  stranger 
quietly. 

"  You  appear  to  take  things  easy,"  re- 
joined Potts  angrily;  "but  let  me  tell 
you,  if  you  come  to  bully  me  you've  got 
into  the  wrong  shop." 

"  You  appear  somewhat  heated.    You 
17 


must  be  calm,  or  else  we  cannot  get 
to  business ;  and  in  that  case  I  shall  have 
to  leave." 

"  I  don't  see  how  that  would  be  any 
affliction,"  said  Potts  with  a  sneer. 

"  That's  because  you  don't  understand 
my  position,  or  the  state  of  the  present 
business.  For  if  I  leave  it  will  be  the 
signal  for  a  number  of  interested  parties 
to  make  a  combined  attack  on  you." 

"  An  attack  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Who  is  there  ?  "  said  Potts  defiantly. 

"  Giovanni  Cavallo,  for  one ;  my  seniors. 
Messrs.  Bigelow  &  Higginson,  and  several 
others." 

"  Never  heard  of  any  of  them  before." 

"  Perhaps  not.  But  if  you  write  to 
Smithers  &  Co.  they  will  tell  you  that 
Bigelow,  Higginson  &  Co.  are  their  solic- 
itors, and  do  their  confidential  business." 

"  Smithers  &  Co.?  "  said  Potts,  aghast. 

"  Yes.  It  would  not  be  for  your  interest 
for  Bigelow,  Higginson  &  Co.  to  show 
Smithers  &  Co.  the  proofs  which  they 
have  against  you,  would  it  ? " 

Potts  was  silent.  An  expression  of 
consternation  came  over  his  face.  He 
plunged  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets 
and  bowed  his  head  frowningly. 

"  It's  all  bosh,"  said  he  at  last,  rais- 
ing his  head.      "  Let  them  show  and 

be   d d.     What  have    they  got    to 

show  ?  " 

"  I  will  answer  your  question  regu- 
larly," said  the  stranger,  "  in  accordance 
with  my  instructions" — and,  drawing  a 
pocket-book  from  his  pocket,  he  began 
to  read  from  some  memoranda  written 
there : 

"  1st.  The  notes  to  which  the  name  of 
Ralph  Brandon  is  attached,  150  in  num- 
ber, amounting  to  ;^93,5oo," 

"  Pooh  !  "  said  Potts. 

"  These  forgeries  'vere  known  to  several 


\ ,  I 


a48 


COKI)    AND    CREESE 


Si 

I: 


ill 


besides  your  son  and  yourself,  and  one 
of  these  men  will  testify  against  yuu. 
Others  who  know  Brandon's  signature 
swear  that  this  lacks  an  important  point 
of  distinction  common  to  all  the  Brandon 
signatures  handed  down  from  father  to 
son.  You  were  foolish  to  leave  these 
notes  afloat.  They  have  all  been  bought 
up  on  a  speculation  by  those  who  wished 
to  make  the  Brandon  property  a  little 
dearer." 

"  I  don't  think  they'll  make  a  fortune 
out  of  the  speculation,"  said  Potts,  who 

was  stifling  with  rage.    "  D n  them  ! 

who  are  they  ?  " 

"  Well  there  are  several  witnesses  who 
are  men  of  such  character  that  if  my 
seniors  sent  them  to  Smithers  &  Co., 
Smithers  &  Co.  would  believe  that  you 
were  guilty.  In  a  court  of  law  you  would 
have  no  better  chance.  One  of  these 
witnesses  says  he  can  prove  that  your  true 
name  is  Briggs." 

At  this  Potts  bounded  from  his  chair 
and  stepped  forward  with  a  terrific 
oath. 

"You  see  your  son's  neck  is  in  very 
considerable  danger," 

*'  Yours  is  in  greater,"  said  Potts,  with 
menacing  eyes. 

*•  Not  at  all.  Even  supposing  that  you 
were  absurd  enough  to  offer  violence  to 
an  humble  subordinate  like  me,  it  would 
not  interfere  with  the  policy  of  Messrs. 
Bigelow,  Higginson  &  Co.,  who  are  de- 
termined to  make  money  out  of  this 
transaction.  So  you  see  it's  absurd  to 
talk  of  violence." 

The  stranger  took  no  further  notice  of 
Potts,  but  looked  again  at  his  memoranda ; 
while  the  latter,  whose  face  was  now  ter- 
rific from  the  furious  passions  which  it 
exhibited,  stood  like  a  wild  beast  in  a 
cage,  "  willing  to  wound,  but  yet  afraid 
to  strike." 


"  The  next  case,"  said  the  stranger,  "  is 
the  Thornton  forgery." 

"  Thornton  ! "  exclaimed  Potts  with 
greater  agitation. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  stranger.  "  In  con- 
nection with  the  Despard  murder  thtrc 
were  two  sets  of  forgeries;  one  being 
the  Thornton  correspondence,  and  the 
other  your  correspondence  with  the  Bank 
of  Good  Hope." 

"  Heavens  !  what's  all  this  ? "  cried 
Potts.  "  Where  have  you  been  unearth- 
ing this  rubbish  ?  " 

"  First,"  said  the  stranger,  without 
noticing  Potts'  exclamation,  "there  are 
the  letters  to  Thornton,  Senior,  twenty 
years  ago,  in  which  an  attempt  was  made 
to  obtain  Colonel  Despard 's  money  fur 
yourself.  One  Clark,  an  accomplice  of 
yours,  presented  the  letter.  The  forgery 
was  at  once  detected.  Clark  might  have 
escaped,  but  he  made  an  effort  at  bur- 
glary, was  caught  and  condemned  to 
transportation.  He  had  been  already  out 
once  before,  and  this  time  received  a  new 
brand  in  addition  to  the  old  ones." 

Potts  did  not  say  a  word,  but  sat 
stupefied. 

"  Thornton,  Junior,  is  connected  with 
us,  and  his  testimony  is  valuable,  as 
he  was  the  one  who  detected  the  forgery. 
He  also  was  the  one  who  went  to  the  Cape 
of  Good  Hope,  where  he  had  the  pleasure 
of  iTieeting  with  you.  This  brings  nic  to 
the  third  case,"  continued  the  stranger. 

"  Letters  were  sent  to  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope,  ordering  money  to  be  paid 
to  John  Potts.  Thornton,  Senior,  fearing 
from  the  first  attempt  that  a  similar  one 
would  be  made  at  the  Cape,  where  the 
deceased  had  funds,  sent  his  son  there. 
Young  Thornton  reached  the  place  just 
before  you  did,  and  would  have  arrested 
you,  but  the  proof  was  not  sufficient. ' 

"  Aha !  "  cried  Potts,  grasping  at  this 


THE    STRANGER 


249 


the  stranger, "  is 

ned    rolls   with 

ingcr.  "In  con- 
,rd  murder  ll»t;re 
eries;  one  bciuK 
indence,  and  the 
nee  with  the  Bank 

all    this?"    cried 
you  been  uneartli- 

stranger,  without 
nation,  "there  arc 
on,  Senior,  twenty 

attempt  was  nuulc 
spard's  money  fur 

an  acconiplice  of 
etter.    The  forgery 
Clark  might  have 
le  an  effort  at  bui- 
md    condemned  to 
lad  been  already  out 
time  received  a  new 
the  old  ones." 
J  a  word,   but   sat 

r,  is  connected  with 
,ny    is   valuable,  as 
detected  the  forgeiy. 
vho  went  to  the  Cape 
he  had  the  pleasure 
This  brings  nie  to 
inued  the  stranger, 
jnt    to  the  Cape  o( 
g  money  to  be  paid 
rnton,  Senior,  fearing 
,t  that  a  similar  one 
the  Cape,  where  the 
„  sent  his  son  there, 
lached  the  place  just 
would  have  arrested 
vas  not  sufficient." 
otts,  grasping  at  this 


I  should  think 
husky    and    his 


— "  not  snfTicient  proof ! 
not."     His    voice    was 
manner  nervous. 

"  I  said  '  was  not  '—but  Messrs.  Bige- 
low,  Higginson  &  Co.  have  informed  me 
tliat  there  are  parlies  now  in  communi- 
cation with  them  who  can  prove  how, 
when,  where,  and  by  whom  the  forgeries 
were  executed." 

"  It's  a  d d  infernal  lie !  "  ro.ired 

I'otts,  in  a  fresh  burst  of  anger. 

"  I  only  repeat  what  they  state.  The 
man  has  already  written  out  a  statement 
in  full,  and  is  only  waiting  for  my  return 
to  sign  it  before  a  magistrate.  This  will 
be  a  death  warrant  for  your  son  ;  for 
Messrs.  Bigelow,  Higginson  &  Co.  will 
have  him  arrested  at  once.  You  are 
.iware  that  he  has  no  chance  of  escape. 
The  amount  is  too  enormous  and  the 
proof  is  too  strong." 

"  Proof !  "  cried  Potts  desperately  ; 
"who  would  believe  anything  against 
a  man  like  me,  John  Potts — a  man  of  the 
county  ? " 

"  English  law  is  no  respecter  of  per- 
sons," said  the  stranger.  "  Rank  goes 
for  nothing.  But  if  it  did  make  class 
distinctions,  the  witnesses  about  these 
documents  are  of  great  influence.  There 
is  Thornton  of  Holby,  and  Colonel  Henry 
Despard  at  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  with 
whom  Messrs.  Bigelow,  Higginson  &  Co. 
have  had  correspondence.  There  are 
also  others." 

"  It's  all  a  lie  ! "  exclaimed  Potts,  in  a 
voice  which  was  a  little  tremulous.  "  Who 
is  this  fool  who  has  been  making  out 
papers  ? " 

"  His  name  is  Philips  ;  true  name  Law- 
ton.  He  tells  a  very  extraordinary  story 
—very  extraordinary  indeed." 

The  stranger's  peculiar  voicj  was  now 
intensified  in  its  odd,  harsh  intonations. 
The  effect   on  Potts  was   overwhelm- 


ing. For  a  moment  he  was  unable  to 
speak. 

"  Philips  !  "  he  gasped  at  length. 

"  Yes.  You  sent  him  on  business  to 
Smithers  &  Co.  He  has  not  yet  returned. 
He  does  not  intend  to,  for  he  was  found 
out  by  Messrs.  Bigelow,  Higginson  &.  Co., 
and  you  know  how  timid  he  is.  They 
have  succeeded  in  extracting  the  truth 
from  him.  As  I  am  in  a  hurry,  and  you, 
too,  must  be  busy,"  continued  the  stran- 
ger, with  unchanged  accents,  "  I  will  now 
come  to  the  point.  These  forged  papers 
involve  an  amount  to  the  extent  of — 
Brandon  forgeries,  ;^93,300;  Thornton 
papers,  _;^5ooo;  Bank  of  Good  Hope, 
^^4000  ;  being  in  all  ^102,500.  Messrs, 
Bigelow,  Higginson  &  Co.  have  instructed 
me  to  say  that  they  will  sell  these  papers 
to  you  at  their  face  without  charging  in- 
terest. They  will  hand  therr;  over  to  you 
and  you  can  destroy  them,  in  which  case, 
of  course,  the  charge  must  be  dropped." 

"  Philips  !  "  cried  Potts,  "  I'll  have  that 
devil's  blood  I " 

"  That  would  be  murder,"  said  the 
stranger,  with  a  peculiar  emphasis. 

His  tone  stung  Potts  to  the  quick. 

"  You  appear  to  take  me  for  a  born 
fool,"  he  cried,  striding  up  and  down. 

"  Not  at  all.  I  am  only  an  agent  carry- 
ing out  the  instructions  of  others." 

Potts  suddenly  stopped  in  his  walk. 

"Have  you  all  those  papers  about 
you  ?  "  he  hissed. 

"All." 

Potts  looked  all  around.  The  door 
was  locked.  They  were  alone.  The 
stranger  easily  read   his  thought. 

"  No  use,"  said  he  calmly.  "  Messrs. 
Bigelow,  Higginson  &  Co.  would  miss 
me  if  anything  happened.  Besides,  I  may 
as  well  tell  you  that  I  am  armed." 

The  stranger  rose  up  and  faced  Potts, 
while  from  behind  his  dark  spectacles  his 


25© 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


eyes  seemed  to  glow  like  fire.  Potts  re- 
treated with  a  curse. 

'•  Messrs.  Bigelow,  Higginson  &  Co.  in- 
structed me  to  say  that  if  I  am  not  back 
with  the  money  by  to-morrow  night,  they 
will  at  once  begin  act'on  and  have  your 
son  arrested.  They  will  also  inform 
Smithers  &  Co.,  to  whom  they  say  you 
are  indebted  for  over  £fy30,ooo.  So  that 
Smithers  &  Co.  will  at  once  come  down 
on  you  for  payment." 

"Do  Smithers  &  Co.  know  anything 
about  this  }  "  asked  Potts,  in  a  voice  of 
intense  aixiety. 

"  They  do  business  with  you  the  same 
as  ever,  do  they  not  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  How  do  you  suppose  they  can  know 
it?" 

"  They  would  never  believe  it." 

"They  would  believe  any  statement 
made  by  Messrs.  Bigelow,  Higginson  & 
Co.  My  seniors  have  been  on  your  track 
for  a  long  time,  and  have  come  into  con- 
nection with  various  parties.  One  man, 
who  is  an  Italian,  they  consider  important. 
They  authorize  me  to  state  to  you  that 
this  man  can  also  prove  the  forgeries." 

"  Who  ?  "  gasped  Potts. 

"  His  name  is  Cigole." 

"  Cigole ! " 

"  Yes." 

"  D him  ! " 

"  You  may  damn  him,  but  that  won't 
silence  him,"  remarked  the  other  mildly. 

"  Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 
growled  Potts. 

"  Present  you  the  offer  oi  Messrs.  Bige- 
low, Higginson  &  Co.,"  said  the  other, 
with  calm  p'  rtinacity.  "  Upon  it  depend 
your  fortune  and  your  son's  life." 

**  How  long  are  you  going  to  wait  ?  " 

"  Till  evening.  I  leave  to-night.  Per- 
haps you  would  like  to  think  this  over.  I'll 
give  you  till  three  o'clock.    If  you  de- 


cide to  accept,  all  well ;  if  not,  I  go 
back." 

The  stranger  rose,  and  Potts  unlocked 
the  door  for  him. 

After  he  left.  Potts  sat  down,  buried  in 
his  own  reflections.  In  about  an  hour 
Clark  came  in. 

"  ,Vell,  Johnnie  !  "  said  he,  "  what's 
up  ?    You  look  down — any  trouble  ?  " 

At  this  Potts  told  Clark  the  story  of  the 
recent  interview.  Clark  looked  grave, 
and  shook  his  head  several  times. 

"  Bad  !  bad  !  bad  !  "  said  he  slowly, 
when  Potts  had  ended.  "You're  in  a 
tight  place,  lad,  and  I  don't  see  what 
you've  got  to  do  but  to  knock  under." 

A  long  silence  followed. 

"When  did  that  chap  say  he  would 
leave  ?  " 

"  To-night." 

Another  silence. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Clark,  "we  can  find 
out  how  he  goes  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so,"  returned  Potts  gloom- 

:iy. 

"Somebody  might  go  with  him  or 
follow  him,"  said  Clark  darkly. 

Potts  looked  at  him.  The  two  ex- 
changed glances  of  intelligence. 

"  You  see,  you  pay  your  money,  and 
get  your  papers  back.  It  would  be  fool- 
ish to  let  this  man  get  away  with  so 
much  money.  One  hundred  and  two 
thousand  five  hundred  isn't  to  be  picked 
up  every  day.  Let  us  pick  it  up  this 
time,  or  try  to.  I  can  drop  down  to  the 
inn  this  evening  and  see  the  cut  of  the 
man.  I  don't  like  what  he  said  al)out 
me.    I  call  it  backbiting." 

"  You  take  a  proper  view  ot  the  mat- 
ter," said  Potts.  "  He's  dangerous.  He'll 
be  down  on  you  next.  What  I  don't 
like  about  him  is  his  cold-blooded- 
ness." 

"  It  does  come  hard." 


THE    STRANGER  S   STORY 


251 


11;  if  not,  I  go 

d  Potts  unlocked 

,t  down,  buried  in 
n  about  an  hour 

said  he,  "what's 

■any  trouble?" 

irk  the  story  of  the 

rk    looked   grave, 

everal  times. 

•   said  he  slowly. 

;d.    "You're  in  a 

I  don't  see  what 

)  knock  under." 

ved. 

hap  say  he  would 


:iark,  "  we  can  find 
urned  Potts  gloom- 
go  with    him  or 
irk  darkly, 
im.    The    two    ex- 
[telligence. 

your  money,  and 
It  would  be  fool- 
get  away  with  so 
hundred  and  two 
isn't  to  be  picked 
|us  pick  it  up  this 
drop  down  to  the 
see  the  cut  of  the 
rhat  he  said  about 

ling." 

;r  view  ot  the  mat- 
:'s  dangerous.  He'll 
•xt.    What   I   don't 
his    cold-blooded- 


"  Well,  we'll  arra.igQ  it  that  way,  shall 
we?" 

"  Yes,  you  pay  over  and  get  your  docu- 
ments, and  I'll  try  my  hand  at  getting 
the  money  back.  I've  done  harder 
things  than  that  in  my  time,  and  so  have 
you — hey,  lad !  " 

"  I  remember  a  few. " 

"  I  wonder  if  this  man  knows  any  of 
them." 

"No,"  said  Potts  confidently.  "He 
would  have  said  something." 

"Don't  be  too  sure.  The  fact  is,  I've 
been  troubled  ever  since  that  girl  came 
out  so  strong  on  us.  What  are  you 
going  to  do  with  her  ?  " 

"  Don't  know,"  growled  Potts.  "  Keep 
her  still  somehow." 

"  Give  her  to  me." 

"What  '11  you  do  with  her?"  asked 
Potts  in  surprise. 

"Take  her  as  my  wife,"  said  Clark 
with  a  grin.    "  I  think  I'll  follow  your 


example  and  set  up  housekeeping.  The 
girl's  plucky,  and  I'd  like  to  take  her 
down." 

"  We'll  do  it,  and  the  sooner  the  better. 
You  don't  want  a  minister,  do  you  ?  " 

"Well,  I  think  I'll  have  it  done  up  ship 
shape ;  marriage  in  high  life  ;  papers  all 
full  of  it ;  lovely  appearance  of  the  bride — 
ha,  ha,  ha !  I'll  save  you  all  further 
trouble  about  her — a  husband  is  better 
than  a  father  in  such  a  case.  If  that 
Italian  comes  round  it  '11  be  his  last 
round." 

Some  further  conversation  followed  in 
which  Clark  kept  making  perpetual  refer- 
ences to  his  bride.  The  idea  had  taken 
hold  of  his  mind  completely. 

At  one  o'clock  Potts  went  to  the  inn, 
where  he  found  the  age.it.  He  handed 
over  the  money  in  silence.  The  agent 
gave  him  the  documents.  Potts  looked 
at  them  all  carefully. 

Then  he  departed. 


CHAPTER    XLIV 


THE  STRANGER  S  STORY 


That  evening  a  number  of  people 
were  in  the  principal  parlor  of  tlie  Bran- 
don Inn.  It  was  a  cool  evening  in 
October ;  and  there  was  a  fire  near  which 
the  partner  of  Bigelow,  Higginson  &  Co. 
had  seated  himself. 

Clark  had  come  in  at  the  first  of  the 
evening  and  had  been  there  ever  since, 
talking  volubly  and  laughing  boister'^usly. 
The  others  were  more  or  less  talkative, 
but  none  of  them  rivalled  Clark.  They 
were  nearly  all  Brandon  people  ;  and  in 
their  treatment  of  Clark  there  was  a  cer- 


tain restraint  which  the  latter  did  not 
wish  or  care  to  notice.  As  for  the 
stranger  he  sat  apart  in  silence  without 
regarding  anyone  in  particular,  and  giv- 
ing no  indication  whether  he  was  lis- 
tening to  what  was  going  on  or  was 
indifferent  to  it  all.  From  time  to  time 
Clark  threw  glances  in  his  direction,  and 
once  or  twice  he  tried  to  draw  some  of 
the  company  out  to  make  remarks  about 
him  ;  but  the  company  seemed  reluctant 
to  touch  upon  the  subject,  and  merely 
listened  with  patience. 


«S2 


CORD   AND  CREESE 


X. 


liii 


Clark  had  evidently  a  desire  in  his 
mind  to  be  very  entertaining  and  lively. 
With  this  intent  he  told  a  number  of 
stories,  most  of  which  were  intermirgled 
with  allusions  to  the  company  present, 
together  with  the  stranger.  At  last  he 
};azed  at  the  latter  in  silence  for  some 
little  time,  and  then  turned  to  the 
company. 

"There's  one  among  us  that  hasn't 
opened  his  mouth  this  evening.  I  call  it 
unsociable.  I  move  that  the  party  pro- 
ceed to  open  it  forthwith.  Who  seconds 
the  motion  ?    Don't  all  speak  at  once." 

The  company  looked  at  one  another, 
but  no  one  made  any  reply. 

"  What !  no  one  speaks  !  All  right ; 
silence  gives  consent ;  "  and  with  these 
words  Clark  advanced  toward  the 
stranger.  The  latter  said  nothing,  but 
sat  in  a  careless  attitude. 

"  Friend !  "  said  Clark,  standing  before 
the  stranger,  "  we're  all  friends  here — we 
wish  to  be  sociable — we  think  you  are 
too  silent — will  you  be  kind  enough  to 
open  your  mouth  ?  If  you  won't  tell 
a  story,  perhaps  you  will  be  good  enough 
to  sing  us  a  song  ?  " 

The  stranger  sat  upright. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  in  the  same  peculiar 
harsh  voice  and  slow  tone  with  which  he 
had  spoken  to  Potts,  "  the  request  is  a 
fair  one,  and  I  shall  be  happy  to  open  my 
mouth.  I  regret  to  state  that  having  no 
voice  I  shall  be  unable  to  give  you  a 
song,  but  I'll  be  glad  to  tell  a  story,  if 
the  company  will  listen." 

"  The  company  will  feel  honored,"  said 
Clark  in  a  mocking  tone,  as  he  resumed 
his  seat. 

The  stranger  arose,  and,  going  to  the 
fireplace,  picked  up  a  piece  of  charcoal. 

Clark  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  circle, 
looking  at  him  with  a  sneering  smile. 

"  It's  rather  an  odd  story,"  said    the 


stranger,  "  and  I  only  heard  i  the  other 
day ;  perhaps  you  won't  believe  it,  but 
it's  true." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  the  truth  of  it !  "  ex- 
claimed Clark — "  push  along." 

The  stranger  stepped  up  to  the  wall 
over  the  fire-place. 

'*  Before  I  begin  I  wish  to  make  a  few 
marks,  which  I  will  explain  in  proc- 
ess of  time.  My  story  is  connected  with 
these." 

He  took  his  charcoal  and  made  upon 
the  wall  the  following  marks  : 


+ 


He  then  turned,  and  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment  in  silence. 

The  effect  upon  Clark  was  appalling. 
His  face  turned  livid,  his  arms  clutclied 
violently  at  the  seat  of  his  chair,  his  jaw 
fell,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  marks 
as  though  fascinated  by  them. 

The  stranger  appeared  to  take  no 
notice  of  him. 

"  These  marks,"  said  he,  "  were,  or 
rather  an .  upon  the  back  of  a  friend  of 
mine,  about  whom  I  am  going  to  tell  a 
little  story : 

"  The  first  (/IS)  is  the  Queen's  mark, 
put  on  certain  prisoners  out  in  Botany 
Bay  who  are  totally  insubordinate. 

"  The  second  ( j^  )  signifies  'run  away,' 
and  is  put  on  those  who  have  attempted 
to  escape, 


THE   STRANOER  S   STORY 


253 


:arcl  i   the  other 
L  believe  it,  but 

truth  of  it !  "  ex- 

ong." 

I  up  to  the  wall 

ih  to  make  a  few 
explain  in  prec- 
is connected  with 

a  and  made  upon 
marks  : 


I 


»d  stood  for  a  mo- 

lark  was  appalling. 
[,  his  arms  clutched 
If  his  chair,  his  jaw 
fixed  on  the  marks 
w  them, 
[eared    to    take   no 

Lid    he,  "  were,  or 

[back  of  a  frientl  of 

am  going  to  tell  a 

the  Queen's  mark, 

Iners  out  in  Botany 

Insubordinate. 

signifies 'run  away,' 

tho  have  attempted 


"The  third  (-f)  indjcates  a  murderous 
assault  on  the  guards.  When  they  don't 
hang  the  culprit  they  put  this  on;  and 
those  who  are  branded  in  this  way  have 
nothing  but  hard  work,  in  chains,  for  life. 

"These  marks  are  on  the  back  of  a 
friend  of  mine,  whose  name  I  need  not 
mention,  but  for  convenience'  sake  I  will 
call  him  Clark." 

Clark  didn't  even  resent  this,  but  sat 
mute  with  a  face  of  awful  expectation. 

"My  friend  Clark  had  led  a  life  of 
strange  vicissitudes,"  said  the  stranger, 
"having  slipped  through  the  meshes  of 
the  law  very  successfully  a  great  number 
of  times,  but  finally  he  was  caught  and 
sent  to  Botany  Bay.  He  served  his 
time  out  and  left ;  but,  finally,  after  a 
series  of  very  extraordinary  adventures 
In  India,  and  some  odd  events  in  the 
Indian  Ocean,  he  came  to  England.  Bad 
luck  followed  him,  however.  He  made 
an  attempt  at  burglary  and  was  caught, 
convicted,  and  sent  back  again  to  his  old 
Station  at  Botany  Bay. 

"  Of  course  he  felt  a  strong  reluctance 
to  stay  in  such  a  place,  and  therefore 
began  to  plan  an  escape.  He  made  one 
attempt,  which  was  unsuccessful.  He 
then  laid  a  plot  with  two  other  notorious 
offenders.  Each  of  these  three  had  been 
branded  with  those  characters  which  I 
have  marked.  One  of  these  was  named 
Slubbs,  and  another  Wilson  ;  the  third 
was  this  Clark.  No  one  knew  how  they 
met  to  make  their  arrangements,  for  the 
prison  regulations  are  very  strict ;  but 
they  did  meet,  and  managed  to  confer 
together.  They  contrived  to  get  rid  of 
the  chains  that  were  fastened  around 
their  ankles,  and  one  stormy  night  they 
started  off  and  made  a  run  for  it. 

"  The  next  day  the  guards  were  out  in 
pursuit  with  dogs.  They  went  all  day 
long  on  their  track  over  a  very  rough 


country,  and  finally  came  to    a    river. 
Here  they  prepared  to  pass  the  night. 

"On  rising  early  on  the  following 
morning  they  saw  something  moving  on 
the  top  of  a  hill  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  river.  On  watching  it  narrowly 
they  saw  three  men.  They  hurried  on  at 
once  in  pursuit.  The  fugitives  kept  well 
ahead,  however,  as  was  natural;  and, 
since  they  were  running  for  life  and  free- 
dom, they  made  a  better  pace. 

"  But  they  were  pretty  well  worn  out. 
1  hey  had  taken  no  provisions  with  them, 
and  had  not  calculated  on  so  close  a 
pursuit.  They  kept  ahead  as  best  they 
could,  and  at  last  reached  a  narrow  river 
that  ran  down  between  cliffs  through  a 
gully  to  the  sea.  The  cliffs  on  each  side 
were  high  and  bold.  But  they  had  to 
cross  it ;  so  down  on  one  side  they  went, 
and  up  the  other. 

"  Clark  and  Stubbs  got  up  first.  Wil- 
son was  just  reaching  the  top  when  the 
report  of  a  gun  was  heard,  and  a  bullet 
struck  him  in  the  arm.  Groaning  in  his 
agony  he  rushed  on,  trying  to  keep  up 
with  his  companions. 

"  Fortunately  for  them  night  came  on. 
They  hurried  on  all  night,  scarcely  know- 
ing where  they  were  going,  Wilson  in 
an  agony  trying  to  keep  up  with  them. 
Toward  morning  they  snatched  a  little 
rest  under  a  rock  near  a  brook  and  then 
hurried  forward. 

"  For  two  days  more  they  hastened  on, 
keeping  out  of  reach  of  their  pursuers,  yet 
still  knowing  that  they  were  followed,  or 
at  least  fearing  it.  They  had  gone  over 
a  wild  country  along  the  coast,  and  keep- 
ing a  northward  direction.  At  fength, 
after  four  days  of  wandering,  they  came 
to  a  little  creek  by  the  seashore.  There 
were  three  houses  here  belonging  to 
fishermen.  They  rushed  into  the  first 
hut  and  implored  food  and  drink.     The 


I  i 


«54 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


■■    .'i'i 


iiil 


^j'i 


men  were  off  to  Sydney,  but  the  kind- 
hearted  women  gave  them  what  they  had. 
They  were  terrified  at  the  aspect  of  these 
wretched  men,  whose  natural  ferocity 
had  been  heightened  by  hardship,  fam- 
ine, and  suffering.  Gaunt  and  grim  as 
they  were,  they  seemed  more  terrible 
than  three  wild  beasts.  The  women 
knew  that  they  were  escaped  con- 
victs. 

•'  There  was  a  boat  lying  on  the  beach. 
To  this  the  first  thoughts  of  the  fugitives 
were  directed.  They  filled  a  cask  with 
water  and  put  it  on  board.  They  de- 
manded some  provisions  from  the  fisher- 
man's wife.  The  frightened  woman  gave 
them  some  fish  and  a  few  ship-biscuits. 
They  were  about  to  forage  for  themselves 
when  Wilson,  who  had  been  watching, 
gave  the  alarm. 

"  Their  pursuers  were  upon  them. 
They  had  to  run  for  it  at  once.  They  had 
barely  time  to  rush  to  the  boat  and  get  out 
a  little  distance  when  the  guard  reached 
the  beach.  The  latter  fired  a  few  shots 
after  them,  but  the  shots  took  no 
effect. 

"  The  fugitives  put  out  to  sea  in  the 
open  boat.  They  headed  north,  for  they 
hoped  to  catch  some  Australian  ship  and 
be  taken  up.  Their  provisions  were  soon 
exhausted.  Fortunately  it  was  the  rainy 
season,  so  that  they  had  a  plentiful  supply 
of  water,  with  which  they  managed  to 
keep  their  cask  filled  ;  but  that  did  not 
prevent  them  from  suffering  the  agonies 
of  famine.  Clark  and  Stubbs  soon 
began  to  look  at  Wilson  with  looks  that 
made  him  quiver  with  terror.  Naturally 
enough,  gentlemen  ;  you  see  they  were 
starving.  Wilson  was  the  weakest  of  the 
three,  and  therefore  was  at  their  mercy. 
They  tried,  however,  to  catch  fish.  It 
was  of  no  use.  There  seemed  to  be  no 
fish  in  those  seas,  or  else  the  bits  of  bread 


crumb  which   they   put  down  were  not 
attractive  bait. 

"  The  two  men  began  to  look  at  Wil- 
son with  the  eyes  of  fiends — eyes  that 
flamed  with  foul  desire,  beaming  from 
deep,  hollow  orbits  which  famine  had 
made.  The  days  passed.  One  morning 
Wilson  lay  dead." 

The  stranger  paused  for  a  moment 
amid  an  awful  silence. 

"  The  lives  of  those  two  were  preser\'ed 
a  little  longer,"  he  added  in  slow, 
measured  tones. 

"They  sailed  on.  In  a  few  days  Clark 
and  Stubbs  began  to  look  at  one  another. 
You  will  understand,  gentlemen,  that  it 
was  an  awful  thing  for  these  men  to  cast 
at  each  other  the  same  glances  which 
they  once  cast  on  Wilson.  Each  one 
feared  the  other;  each  watched  his 
chance,  and  each  guarded  against  his 
companion. 

"  They  could  no  longer  row.  The  one 
sat  in  the  bow,  the  other  in  the  stern, 
glaring  at  one  another.  My  friend  Clark 
was  a  man  of  singular  endurance.  But 
why  go  into  particulars?  Enough;  the 
boat  drifted  on,  and  at  last  only  one  was 
left. 

"  A  ship  was  sailing  from  Australia, 
and  the  crew  saw  a  boat  drifting.  A 
man  was  there.  They  stopped  and 
picked  him  up.  The  boat  was  stained 
with  blood.  Tokens  of  what  that  blood 
was  lay  around.  There  were  other  things 
in  the  boat  which  chilled  the  blood  of  the 
sailors.  They  took  Clark  on  board.  He 
was  mad  at  first,  and  raved  in  his  delirimn, 
They  heard  him  tell  of  what  he  had  done, 
During  that  voyage  no  one  spoke  to  him. 
They  touched  at  Cape  Town  and  put 
him  ashore. 

"  My  friend  is  yet  alive  and  well.  How 
do  you  like  my  story  ?  " 

The  stranger  sat  down.     A  deep  still- 


BEATRICE'S   JOURNAL   CONCLUDED 


»5S 


lown  were  not 

0  look  at  Wil- 

inds— eyes  that 

beaming  from 

ch  famine  had 

One  morning 

for  a  moment 

o  were  preserved 
idded    in    slow, 

a  few  days  Clark 
k  at  one  another, 
rentlemen,  that  it 
these  men  to  cast 
,e  glances  which 
ilson.  Each  one 
ich  watched  his 
irded  against  his 

rerrow.    The  one 

ther  in  the  stern. 

My  friend  Clark 

endurance.    But 

?    Enough;  the 

last  only  one  was 

g  from  Australia, 
boat  drifting.    A 
hey    stopped    and 
boat  was  stained 
)f  what  that  blood 
_  were  other  things 
ed  the  blood  of  the 
ark  en  board.    He 
ved  in  his  delirium. 

what  he  had  done. 

one  spoke  to  him. 

e  Town  and  put 

ive  and  well.  How 
iwn.    A  deep  still- 


ness followed,  which  was  suddenly  broken 
by  something,  half  groan  and  half  curse. 
It  was  from  Clark. 


He  lifted  himself  heavily  from  his 
chair,  his  face  livid  and  his  eyes  blood- 
shot, and  staggered  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XLV 


BEATRICE'S  JOURNAL  CONCLUDED 


September  7,  1849. — [This  part  begins 
with  a  long  account  of  her  escape,  her 
fortunes  at  Holby  and  London,  and  her 
recapture,  which  is  here  omitted,  as  it 
would  be  to  a  large  extent  a  repetition  of 
what  has  already  been  stated.] — After 
Brandon  left  me  my  heart  still  throbbed 
with  the  fierce  impulse  which  he  had 
imparted  to  it.  For  the  remainder  of  the 
day  I  was  upheld  by  a  sort  of  conscious- 
ness of  his  presence.  I  felt  as  though  he 
had  only  left  me  in  person,  and  had  sur- 
rounded me  in  some  way  with  his  mys- 
terious protection. 

Night  came,  and  with  the  night  came 
gloom.  What  availed  his  promise?  Could 
he  prevent  what  I  feared  ?  What  power 
could  he  possibly  have  in  this  house  ? 
I  felt  deserted,  and  my  old  despair 
returned. 

In  the  morning  I  happened  to  cross 
the  hall  to  go  to  Mrs.  Compton's  room, 
when,  to  my  amazement,  I  saw  standing 
outside  the  Hindoo  Asgeelo.  Had  I  seen 
Brandon  himself  I  could  scarcely  have 
been  more  amazed  or  overjoyed.  He 
looked  at  mc  with  a  warning  gesture. 

"  How  did  you  get  here  ?  "  I  whispered. 

"  My  master  sent  me." 

A  thrill  passed  through  my  veins. 

"  Do  not  fear,"  he  said,  and  walked 
mysteriously  away. 

I  asked  Mrs.  Compton  who  he  was, 
and  she  said  he  was  a  new  servant  whom 


he  had  just  hired.    She  knew  nothing 
more  of  him. 

September  12. — A  week  has  passed. 
Thus  far  I  had  been  left  aione.  Perhaps 
they  do  not  know  what  to  do  with  me. 
Perhaps  they  are  busy  arranging  some 
dark  plan. 

Can  I  trust  ?  Oh,  Help  of  the  helpless, 
save  me ! 

Asgeelo  is  here — but  what  can  one 
man  do  ?  At  best  he  can  only  report  to 
his  master  my  agony  or  my  death.  May 
that  Death  soon  come.  Kindly  will  I 
welcome  him. 

September  15. — Things  are  certainly 
different  here  from  what  they  used  to  be. 
The  servants  take  pains  to  put  themselves 
in  my  way,  so  as  to  show  me  profound 
respect.  What  is  the  meaning  of  this? 
Once  or  twice  I  have  met  them  in  the  hall 
and  have  marked  their  humble  bearing. 
Is  it  mockery  ?  Or  is  it  intended  to  en- 
trap me?  I  will  not  trust  any  of  them. 
Is  it  possible  that  this  can  be  Brandon's 
mysterious  power? 

Impossible  !  It  is  rather  a  trick  to  win 
my  confidence.  But  if  so,  why  ?  They 
do  not  need  to  trick  me.  I  am  at  their 
mercy. 

I  am  at  their  mercy,  and  am  without 
defence.  What  will  become  of  me? 
What  is  to  be  my  fate  ? 

Philips  has  been  as  devoted  as  ever.  He 
leaves  me  flowers  every  day.    He  tries  to 


256 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


"^Ijl 


show  sympathy.  At  least  I  have  two 
friends  here — Philips  and  Asgeelo.  But 
Philips  is  timid,  and  Asgeelo  is  only  one 
against  a  crowd.  There  is  Vijal — but  I 
have  not  seen  him. 

September  25. — To-day  in  my  closet 
I  found  a  number  of  bottles  of  different 
kinds  of  medicine,  used  while  I  was  sick. 
Two  of  these  attracted  my  attention. 
One  was  labelled  "  Laudanum,"  another 
was  labelled  "  Hydrocyanic  Acid — 
Poison,"  I  suppose  they  used  these 
drugs  for  my  benefit  at  that  time.  The 
sight  of  them  gave  me  more  joy  than  any- 
thing else  that  I  could  have  found. 

When  the  time  comes  which  I  dread, 
I  shall  not  be  without  resource.  These 
shall  save  me. 

October  3. — They  leave  me  unmolested. 
They  are  waiting  for  some  crushing  blow, 
no  doubt.  Asgeelo  sometimes  meets  me, 
and  makes  signs  of  encouragement. 

To-day  Philips  met  me  and  said: 
"  Don't  fear — the  crisis  is  coming."  I 
asked  wliat  he  meant.  As  usual  he 
looked  frightened  and  hurried  away. 

What  does  he  mean?  What  crisis? 
The  only  crisis  that  I  can  think  of  is  one 
which  fills  me  with  dread.  When  that 
comes  I  will  meet  it  firmly. 

October  10. — Mrs.  Compton  told  me 
to-day  that  Philips  had  gone  to  London 
on  business.  The  poor  old  thing  looked 
very  much  troubled.  I  urged  her  to  tell 
me  what  was  the  matter,  but  she  only 
looked  the  more  terrified.  Why  she 
should  feel  alarm  about  the  departure  of 
Philips  for  London  I  cannot  imagine. 
Has  it  anything  to  do  with  me  ?  No. 
How  can  it  ?  My  fate,  whatever  it  is, 
must  be  wrought  out  here  in  this  place. 

October  14. — The  dreaded  crisis  has 
come  at  last.  Will  not  this  be  my  last 
entry  ?  How  can  I  longer  avoid  the  fate 
that  impends  ? 


This  afternoon  He  sent  for  me  to  come 
down.  I  went  to  the  dining  room  expect- 
ing some  horror,  and  I  was  not  disap- 
pointed. The  three  were  sitting  there  as 
they  had  sat  before,  and  I  thought  that 
there  was  trouble  upon  their  faces.  It 
was  only  two  o'clock,  and  they  had  just 
finished  lunch. 

John  was  the  first  to  speak.  He  ad- 
dressed me  in  a  mocking  tone. 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  inform  you,"  said 
he,  "  that  the  time  has  arrived  when  you 
are  to  be  took  down." 

I  paid  no  attention  whatever  to  these 
words.  I  felt  calm.  The  old  sense  of 
superiority  came  over  me,  and  I  looked 
at  him  withoul  a    tremor. 

My  tyrant  glanced  at  me  with  a  dark 
scowl.  "  After  your  behavior,  girl,  you 
ought  to  bless  your  lucky  stars  that  you 
got  off  as  you  did.  If  I  had  done  right, 
I'd  have  made  you  pay  up  well  for  tlie 
trouble  you've  given.  But  I've  spared 
you.  At  the  same  time  I  wouldn't  have 
done  so  long.  I  was  just  arranging  a 
nice  little  plan  for  your  benefit  when  this 
gentleman  " — nodding  his  head  to  Clark 
— "  this  gentleman  saved  mc  the  trouble." 

I  said  nothing. 

"Come,  Clark,  speak  up — it's  your 
affair " 

"  Oh,  you  manage  it,"  said  Clark. 
"  You've  got  the  '  gift  of  gab.'  I  never 
had  it." 

"  I  never  in  all  my  born  days  saw  so 
bold  a  man  as  timid  with  a  girl  as  you 
are." 

"  He's  doin'  what  I  shouldn't  like  to 
try  on,"  said  John. 

"  See  here,"  said  my  tyrant  sternly, 
"  this  gentleman  has  very  kindly  con- 
sented to  take  charge  of  you.  He  has 
even  gone  so  far  as  to  consent  to  marry 
you.  He  will  actually  make  you  his  wife. 
In  my  opinion  he's  crazy,  but  he's  got  his 


BEATRICE  S  JOURNAL  CONCLUDED 


257 


t  for  me  to  come 
ing  room  expect- 
was  not  cUsap- 
e  sitting  there  us 
:1  I  thought  that 
I  their  faces.  It 
nd  they  had  just 

»  speak.     He  ad- 
;ing  tone, 
inform  you,"  said 
arrived  when  you 

If 

jrhatever  to  these 
The  old  sense  of 
me,  and  I  loolicd 
imor. 

It  me  with  a  dark 
behavior,  girl,  you 
cky  stars  that  you 
i  1  had  done  right. 
)ay  up  well  for  tlie 

But  I've  spand 
ne  I  wouldn't  have 

just  arranging  a 
r  benefit  when  this 

his  head  to  Clark 

dmc  the  trouble. " 

:ak    up— it's   your 

it,"    said    Clark. 
|t  of  gab/     I  never 

born  days  saw  so 
[with  a  girl  as  you 

|l  shouldn't  like  to 

ly  tyrant   sternly, 

very    kindly  con- 

of  you.     He  has 

consent  to  marry 

make  you  his  wife. 

kzy,  but  he's  got  iiis 


own  ideas.  He  has  vpromised  to  give 
you  a  tip-top  wedding.  If  it  had  beei. 
left  to  me,"  he  went  on  sternly,  >'  I'd 
have  let  you  have  something  very  differ- 
ent, but  he's  a  soft-hearted  fellow,  and 
is  going  to  do  a  foolish  thing.  It's  lucky 
for  you,  though.  You'd  have  had  a 
precious  hard  time  of  it  with  me,  I  tell 
you.  You've  got  to  be  grateful  to  him  ; 
so  come  up  here,  and  give  iiim  a  kiss,  and 
thank  him." 

So  prepared  was  I  for  any  horror  that 
tiiis  did  not  surprise  me. 

"  Do  you  hear  ?  "  he  cried,  as  I  stood 
motionless.    I  said  nothing. 

"  Do  as  I  say,  d n  you,  or  I'll  make 

you" 

"  Come,"  said  Clark,  "  don't  make  a 
fuss  about  the  wench  now — it  '11  be  all 
right.  She'll  like  kissing  v>;ell  enough, 
and  be  only  too  glad  to  give  me  one 
before  a  week." 

"  Yes,  but  she  ought  to  be  made  to  do 
it  now." 

"  Not  necessary,  Johnnie  ;  all  in  good 
time." 

My  master  was  silent  for  some  mo- 
ments.   At  last  he  spoke  again  : 

"Girl,"  said  he,  "you  are  to  be  mar- 
ried to-morrow.  There  won't  be  any 
invited  guests,  but  you  needn't  mind 
that.  You'll  have  your  husband,  and 
that's  more  than  you  deserve.  You  ucn'i 
want  any  new  dresses.  Your  ball  dress 
will  do." 
"Come,  I    won't    stand     that,"   said 


Clark.    "  She's  got  to  be  dressed  up  in 
tip-top  style.     I'll  stand  the  damage." 

"  Oh,  d n  the  damage.    If  you  want 

that  sort  of  thing,  it  shall  be  done.    But 
there  won't  be  time." 

"  Oh,  well,  let  her  fix  up  the  best  way 
she  can." 

At  this  I  turned  and  left  the  room. 
None  of  them  tried  to  prevent  rne.  I 
went  up  to  my  chamber  and  sat  down 
thinking.     The  hour  had  come. 

This  is  my  last  entry.  My  only  refuge 
from  horror  unspeakable  is  the  Poison. 

Perhaps  one  day  someone  will  find 
my  journal  where  it  is  concealed.  Let 
them  learn  from  it  what  anguish  may  be 
endured  by  the  innocent. 

May  God  have  mercy  upon  my  soul ! 
Amen. 

October  14,  ii  o'clock. — Hope! 

Mrs.  Compton  came  to  me  a  few 
minutes  since.  She  had  received  a  letter 
from  Philips  by  Asgeelo.  She  said  the 
Hindoo  wished  to  see  me.  He  was  at  my 
door.  I  went  there.  He  told  me  that 
I  was  to  fly  from  Brandon  Hall  at  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  He  would  take 
care  of  me.  Mrs.  Compton  said  she  was 
to  go  with  me.  A  place  had  been  found 
where  we  could  get  shelter. 

Oh,  my  God,  I  thank  thee  !  Already 
when  I  heard  this  I  was  mixing  thedraught. 
Twv>  o'clock  was  the  hour  on  which  I  had 
decided  for  a  different  kind  of  flight. 

O  God,  deliver  the  captive  !  Save  me, 
as  I  put  my  trust  in  thee !    Amen. 


CHAPTER   XLVI 


THE      LAST      ESCAPE 


^ 


The  hour  which  Beatrice  had  men- 
tioned in  her  diai'y  was  awaited  by  h 
with  feverisi)  laipatijnce.  Sht:  lia  i  coi  t 
dence  in  Asgeelo,  and  this  contidcrct: 
was  heightened  by  tiie  fact  that  Mis. 
Compton  was  going  to  accompany  her. 
The  very  timidity  of  this  poor  old  crea- 
ture would  have  prevented  her  fronr. 
thinking  of  escape  on  any  ordinary  occa- 
sion ;  but  now  the  latter  showed  no  fear. 
She  evinced  a  strange  exaltation.  She 
showed  Philips'  letter  to  Beatrice,  and 
made  her  read  it  over  and  over  again.  It 
contained  only  a  few  words  : 

"  The  time  has  come  at  last.  I  will 
keep  my  word  to  you,  dear  old  woman. 
Be  ready  to-night  to  leave  Brandon  Hall 
and  those  devils  forever.  The  Hindoo 
will  help  you. 

"Edgar." 

Mrs.  Compton  seemed  to  think  far 
more  of  the  letter  than  of  escaping.  The 
fact  that  she  had  a  letter  seemed  to 
absorb  all  her  faculties,  and  no  other  idea 
entered  her  mind.  Beatrice  had  but  few 
preparations  to  make ;  a  small  parcel 
contained  all  with  which  she  dared  to 
encumber  herself.  Hastily  making  it  up 
she  waited  in  extreme  impatience  for  the 
time. 

At  last  two  o'clock  came.  Mrs.  Comp- 
ton was  i<i  her  room.  There  was  a  faint 
tap  at  the  door.  Beatrice  opened  it.  It 
was  Asgei.'lo.  The  Hindoo  stood  with 
his  finger  on  his  lips,  and  then  moved 


away  slo^vly  and  stealthily.    They  ftl 
lowt  ' 

i  .u  !'■».. loo  led  the  way,  carrying  a 
iu  \H  !;•  item.  He  did  not  show  any  very 
fi'^'.'i.  ca  iti^n,  but  moved  with  a  quiet 
step,  think;. kg  it  sufficient  if  he  made 
no  noise.  Beatrice  followed,  and  Mrs. 
Compton  came  last,  carrying  nothing  but 
the  note  from  Philips,  which  she  clutched 
in  her  hand  as  though  she  esteemed  it 
the  only  thing  of  value  which  she  pos- 
sessed. 

In  spite  of  Beatrice's  confidence  in 
A.sgeelo  she  felt  her  heart  sink  with 
dread  as  she  passed  through  the  hall  and 
down  the  great  stairway.  But  no  sound 
disturbed  them.  The  lights  were  all  out 
and  the  house  was  still.  The  door  of 
the  dining  room  was  open,  but  no  light 
shone  through. 

Asgeelo  led  the  way  to  the  north  door. 
They  went  on  quietly  without  any  inter- 
ruption, and  at  last  reached  it.  Asgeelo 
turned  the  key  and  held  the  door  ball 
open  for  a  moment.  Then  he  turned 
and  whispered   to  them   to  go  out. 

Beatrice  took  two  or  three  steps  for- 
ward, when  suddenly  a  dark  figure 
emerged  from  the  stairway  that  led  to  the 
servants'  hall  and  with  a  sudden  spring 
advanced  to  Asgeelo. 

The  latter  dropped  the  lamp,  which 
fell  with  a  rattle  on  the  floor  but  still 
continued  burning.  He  drew  a  long, 
keen  knife  from  his  breast,  and  seized 
the  other  by  the  throat. 

Beatrice  started  back.    By  the  light 


aiS 


THE    LAST    ESCAPE 


259 


thily.    They  fcl 

;  way,  carrying  a 
lot  show  any  very 
;ed  with  a  quiet 
ient  if  he  made 
ilowed,  and   Mrs. 
Tying  nothing  but 
,'hich  she  clutched 
1  she  esteemed  it 
e  which  she  pos- 
e's  confidence    in 
heart    sink  with 
rough  the  hall  and 


ly 


But  no  sound 
ights  were  all  out 
till.  The  door  of 
open,  but  no  light 

to  the  north  door. 
vithout  any  inter- 
iched  it.    Asgeelo 
,eld  the  door  ball 
Then  he  turned 
m  to  go  out. 
ir  three  steps  for- 
a    dark    figure 
■way  that  led  to  the 
a  sudden  spring 

the  lamp,  which 
the  floor  but  still 
le  drew    a   long, 
jreast,  and  seized 

Lck.    By  the  light 


that  flickered  on  the  floor  she  saw  it  all. 
The  gigantic  fij^'ure  of  Asgeelo  stood 
erect,  one  arm  c'liching  the  throat  0/  his 
assailant,  and  t'..  )ther  holding  the  knife 
aloft. 

Beatrice  ruslip  '  forward  a.id  caught 
the  uplifted  am. 

"  Spare  him  !  she  said  in  a  low  w  lis- 
pr>.  "  Kt  is  my  friend.  He  '  lpv.\.  nie 
to  escape  once  before." 

She  had   recognized  Vijal. 

The  Hindoo  dropped  his  arm  and  re- 
leased his  hold.  The  Malay  staggered 
back  and  looked  earnestly  at  Beatrice. 
Recognizing  her,  he  fell  on  her  knees  and 
kissed  her  hand. 

"  I  will  keep  your  secret,"  he  mur- 
mured. 

Beatrice  hurried  out,  and  the  others 
followed.  They  heard  the  key  turn  in 
the  door  after  1  -em.  Vijal  had  locked  it 
from  the  inside. 

Asgeelo  led  the  way  with  a  swift 
step.  They  v^ent  down  the  main  ave- 
nue, and  at  length  reached  the  gate 
without  any  interruption.  The  gates 
were  shut. 

Beatrice  looked  around  in  some  dread 
for  fear  of  being  discovered.  Asgeelo 
said  nothing,  but  tapped  at  the  door  of 
the  porter's  lodge.  The  door  soon 
opened,  and  the  porter  came  out.  He 
said  nothing,  but  opened  the  gates  in 
silence. 

They  went  out.  The  huge  gates  shut 
behind  them.  They  heard  the  key  turn 
in  the  lock.  In  her  excitement  Beatrice 
wondered  at  this,  and  saw  that  the  porter 
must  also  be  in  the  secret.  Was  this  the 
work  of  Brandon  ? 

They  passed  down  the  road  a  little 
distance,  and  at  length  reached  a  place 
where  there  were  two  coaches  and  some 
men. 

One  of  these  came  up  ^nd  took  Mrs. 


Compton.  "  Come,  old  woman,"  said  he ; 
"  you  and  I  are  to  go  in  this  coach."  It 
V  ns  too  dark  <o  see  who  it  was  ;  but  the 
voice  sounded  like  that  of  Philips.  He 
led  her  into  'e  coach  and  jumped  in 
after  her. 

There  was  another  figure  there.  He 
advanced  in  silence,  and  motioned  to  the 
coach  without  a  word.  Beatrice  followed; 
the  coach  door  was  opened,  and  she 
entered.  Asgeelo  mounted  the  box.  The 
stranger  entered  the  coach  and  shut  the 
door. 

Beatrice  had  not  seen  the  face  of  this 
man ;  but  at  the  sight  of  the  outline  of 
his  figure  a  strange,  wild  thought  camr 
to  her  mind.  As  he  seated  himself  '  . 
her  side  a  thrill  passed  through  every 
nerve.     Not  a  word  was  spoken. 

He  reached  out  one  hand,  and  cau-;!t 
hers  in  a  close  and  fervid  clasp.  He  threw 
his  arm  about  her  waist,  and  drew  her 
toward  him.  Her  head  sank  in  a  delicious 
languor  upon  his  breast ;  and  she  felt  the 
fast  throbbing  of  his  heart  as  she  lay 
there.  He  held  her  pressed  closely  for 
a  long  while,  drawing  quick  and  heavy 
breaths,  and  not  speaking  a  word.  Then 
he  smoothed  her  brow,  strrked  her 
hair,  and  caressed  her  chee'c.  Every 
touch  of  his  made  her  blood  tingle. 

"  Do  you  know  who  I  am  ?  "  said  at 
last  a  well-known  voice. 

She  made  no  answer,  but  pressed  his 
hand  and  nestled  more  closely  to  his 
heart. 

The  carriages  rushed  on  swiftly.  They 
went  through  the  village,  passed  the  inn, 
and  soon  entered  the  open  country. 
Beatrice,  in  that  moment  of  ecstasy, 
knew  not  and  cared  n'l  whither  they 
were  going.  Enough  that  she  was  with 
him. 

"  You  have  saved  me  from  a  fate  of 
horror,"  said  she  tremulously  ;  "  or  rather, 


26o 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


you  have  prevented  me  from  saving 
myself." 

"  How  could  you  have  saved  your- 
self ?  " 

"  I  found  poison." 

She  felt  the  shudder  that  passed  through 
his  frame.  He  pressed  her  again  to 
his  heart,  and  sat  for  a  long  time  in 
silence. 

"  How  had  you  the  heart  to  let  me  go 
back  when  you  could  get  me  c^way  so 
easily  ?  "  said  she,  after  a  time,  in  a  re- 
proachful tone. 

"  I  could  not  save  you  then,"  answered 
he,  "without  open  violence.  I  wished  to 
defer  that  for  the  accomplishment  of  a 
purpose  which  you  know.  But  I  secured 
your  safety,  for  all  the  servants  at  Brandon 
Hall  are  in  my  pay," 

"  What !  Vijal  too  ?  " 

"  No,  not  Vijal ;  he  was  incorruptible  ; 
but  all  the  others.  They  would  have 
obeyed  your  slightest  wish  in  any  re- 
spect. They  would  have  shed  their 
blood  for  you,  for  the  simple  reason  that 
I  had  promised  to  pay  each  man  an  enor- 
mous sum  if  he  saved  you  from  any  trou- 
ble. They  were  all  on  the  lookoul.  You 
never  were  so  watched  in  your  life.  If 
you  had  chosen  to  run  off  every  man  of 
them  would  have  helped  you,  and  would 
have  rejoiced  at  the  chance  of  making 
himself  iich  at  the  expense  of  Potts. 
Under  these  circumstances  I  thought 
you  were  safe." 

"  And  why  did  you  not  tell  me  ?  " 

"  Ah,  love !  there  are  many  things 
which  I  must  not  tell  you." 

He  sighed.  His  sombre  tone  brought 
back  her  senses,  which  had  been  wander- 
ing. She  struggled  to  get  away.  He 
would   not  release  her. 

"  Let  me  go  !"  said  she.  "  I'm  of  the 
accursed  brood— the  impure  ones !  You 
are  polluted  by  my  touch  !  " 


"  I  will  not  let  you  go,"  returned  he,  in 
a  tone  of  infinite  sweetness.  "  Not  now. 
This  may  be  our  last  interview.  How 
can  I  let  you  go  ?  " 

"  I  am  a  pollution." 

"  You  are  angelic.  Oh,  let  us  not 
think  of  other  things !  Let  us  banisli 
from  our  minds  the  thought  of  that  bar- 
rier which  rises  between  us.  While  wc 
are  here  let  us  forget  everything  except 
that  we  love  one  another.  To-morrow 
will  come,  and  our  joy  will  be  at  an 
end  forever.  But  you,  darling,  will  |je 
saved  !  I  will  guard  you  to  my  life's 
end,  even  though  I  cannot  come  near 
you." 

Tears  fell  from  Beatrice's  eyes.  He 
felt  them  hot  upon  his  hand.  He  sigiud 
deeply. 

"  I  am  of  the  accursed  brood !— the 
accursed !— the  accursed!  You  dishonor 
your  name  by  touching  me." 

Brandon  clung  to  her.  He  would  not 
let  her  go.  She  wept  there  upon  his 
breast,  and  still  murmured  the  wonls, 
"Accursed  !  accursed  !  " 

Their  carriage  rolled  on;  behind  tiiem 
came  the  other ;  on  for  mile  after  mile, 
round  the  bays  and  creeks  of  the  sea, 
until  at  last  they  reached  a  village. 

"This  is  our  destination,"  said  Bran- 
don. 

"  Where  are  we  ?  "  sighed  Beatrice. 

"  It  is  Denton,"  he  replied. 

The  coach  stopped  before  a  little  cot- 
tage. Asgeelo  opened  the  door.  Bran- 
don pressed  Beatrice  to  his  heart. 

"  For  the  last  time,  darling,"  he  mur- 
mured. 

She  said  nothing.  He  helped  her  out, 
catching  her  in  his  arms  as  she  descended, 
and  lifting  her  to  the  ground.  Mrs. 
Compton  was  already  waiting,  luning 
descended  first.  Lights  were  burning  in 
the  cottage  window. 


ROUSED    A'l     LASr 


261 


"  returned  he,  in 
ess.  "  Not  now. 
interview.     How 


Oh,  let  us  not 
Let  us  banish 
lUght  of  that  b;ii- 
;n  us.  W  hile  \vc 
everything  except 
her.  To-morrow 
)y  will  be  at  :in 
,   darling,  will  l)e 

you  to   my  life's 
cannot  come  near 

atrice's  eyes.     He 
hand.    He  siglud 

ursed  brood!— ihc 

ied!  You  dishonor 

ig  me." 

er.     He  would  not 
t   there   upon   his 

mured  the  wouls, 

I" 

on;  behind  them 

or  mile  after  mile, 

creeks  of   the  sua, 

ed  a  village. 

ation,"  said  Brn- 

sighed  Beatrice, 
[replied. 

before  a  little  cot- 
Id  the  door.     Bnm- 

to  his  heart. 

,  darling,"  he  mur- 

He  helped  her  out, 
IS  as  she  desccnclcd. 
I  the  ground.  I^hs. 
ly  waiting,  having 
Us  were  burning  in 


"  This  is  your  home  for  the  present," 
said  Brandon.  "  Here  you  are  safe. 
You  will  find  everything  that  you  want, 
and  the  servants  are  faithful.  You  may 
irust  them." 

He  shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Compton, 


pressed  the  hand  of  Beatrice,  and  leaped 
into  the  coach. 

"  Good-by,"  he  called,  as  Asgeelo 
whipped  the  horses. 

"  Good-by  forever,"  murmured  Beatrice 
through  her  tears. 


CHAPTER  XLVH 


ROUSED  AT  LAST 


About  this  time  Despard  received  a 
call  from  Langhetti.  "  I  am  going 
away,"  said  the  latter,  after  the  pre- 
liminary greetings.  "  I  am  well  enough 
now  to  resume  my  search  after  Beatrice." 

"Beatrice?" 

"  Yes." 

"  What  can  you  do  ?  " 

"1  haven't  an  idea;  but  I  mean  to  try 
to  do  something." 

Langhetti  certainly  did  not  look  like 
a  man  who  was  capable  of  doing  very 
much,  especiajly  against  one  like  Potts. 
Thin,  pale,  fragile,  and  emaciated,  his 
slender  form  seemed  ready  to  yield  to 
the  pressure  of  the  first  fatigue  which 
he  might  encounter.  Yet  his  resolution 
was  strong,  and  he  spoke  confidently  of 
being  able  in  some  mysterious  way  to 
effect  the  escape  of  Beatrice.  He  had 
no  idea  how  he  could  do  it.  He  had  ex- 
erted his  strongest  influence,  and  had 
come  away  discomfited.  Still  he  had 
confidence  in  himself  and  trust  in  God, 
and  with  these  he  determined  to  set  out 
once  more,  and  to  succeed  or  perish  in 
the  attempt. 

After  he  had  left  Despard  sat  moodily 
in  his  study  for  some  hours.  At  last 
a  visitor  was  announced.    He  was  a  man 


whom  Despard  had  never  seen  before, 
and  who  gave  his  name  as  Wheeler. 

The  stranger,  on  entering,  regarded 
Despard  for  some  time  with  an  earnest 
glance  in  silence.    At  last  he  spoke  : 

*'  You  are  the  son  of  Lionel  Despard, 
are  you  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Despard  in  some  surprise. 

"  Excuse  me  for  alluding  to  so  sad  an 
event ;  but  you  are,  of  course,  aware  of 
the  common  story  of  his  death." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Despard  in  still  greater 
surprise. 

"That  story  is  known  to  the  world," 
said  the  stranger.  "  His  case  was  pub- 
licly tried  at  Manilla,  and  a  Malay  was 
executed  for  the  crime." 

"  I  know  that,"  returned  Despard, 
"  and  I  know,  also,  that  there  were  some, 
and  that  there  still  are  some,  who  suspect 
that  the  Malay  was  innocent." 

"  Who  suspected  this  ?  " 

"  My  uncle  Henry  Despard  and  my- 
self." 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  ask  you  if  your 
suspicions  pointed  at  anyone?  " 

"  My  uncle  hinted  at  one  person,  but 
he  had  nothing  more  than  suspicions." 

"  Who  was  the  man  ?  " 

"  A  man  who  was  my  father's  valet  or 


263 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


i 


Mil 


W 


I't- 


aj^cnt,  who  accompanied  him  on  that 
voyagi!,  and  took  an  active  part  in  the 
conviction  of  the  Malay." 

"  What  was  his  name?  " 

"John  Potts." 

"  Where  does  he  live  now  ?  " 

"  In  Brandon." 

"  Very  well.  Excuse  my  questions, 
but  I  was  anxious  to  learn  how  much 
you  knew.  You  will  see  shortly  that 
they  are  not  idle.  Has  anything  ever 
been  done  by  any  of  the  relatives  to  dis- 
cover whether  these  suspicions  were  cor- 
rect ?  " 

"At  first  nothing  was  done.  They 
accepted  as  an  established  fact  the  de- 
cision of  the  Manilla  court.  They  did 
not  even  suspect  then  that  anything  else 
was  possible.  It  was  only  subsequent 
circumstances  that  led  my  uncle  to  have 
some  vague  suspicions." 

"  What  were  those,  rnay  I  ask  ?  " 

"  I  would  rather  not  tell,"  said  Des- 
pard,  who  shrank  from  relating  to  a 
stranger  the  mysterious  story  of  Edith 
Brandon. 

"  It  is  as  well,  perhaps.  At  any  rate, 
you  say  there  were  no  suspicions  expressed 
till  your  uncle  was  led  to  form  them  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  About  how  long  ago  was  this  ?  " 

"  About  two  years  ago — a  little  more, 
perhaps.  I  at  once  devoted  myself  to  the 
task  of  discovering  whether  they  could 
be  maintained.  I  found  it  impossible, 
however,  to  learn  anything.  The  event 
had  happened  so  long  ago  that  it  had 
faded  out  of  men's  minds.  The  person 
whom  I  suspected  had  become  very  rich, 
influential,  and  respected.  In  fact,  he 
was  unassailable,  and  I  have  been  com- 
pelled to  give  up  the  effort." 

"Would  you  like  to  learn  something 
of  the  truth  ? "  asked  the  stranger  in  a 
thrilling  voice. 


Dcspard's  whole  soul  was  roused  hy 
this  question. 

"  More  than  anything  else,"  replied  he. 

"There  is  a  sand-bank,"  begari  the 
stranger,  "  three  hundred  miles  south  of 
the  island  of  Java,  which  goes  by  the 
name  of  Cof)in  Island.  It  is  so  called  dii 
account  of  a  rock  of  peculiar  shape  at  the 
eastern  extremity.  I  was  coming  from 
the  East,  on  my  way  to  England,  when 
a  violent  storm  arose,  and  I  was  cast 
ashore  alone  upon  that  island.  This  may 
seem  extraor'linary  to  you,  but  what  I 
have  to  tell  is  still  more  extraordinary. 
I  found  food  and  water  there,  and  lived 
for  some  time.  At  last  another  hurri- 
cane came  and  blew  away  all  the  saiul 
from  a  mound  at  the  western  end.  This 
mound  had  been  piled  about  a  wrecked 
vessel— a  vessel  wrecked  twenty  years 
ago — twenty  years  ago,"  he  repeated  with 
startling  emphasis,  "  and  the  name  of  the 
vessel  was  the  Vishnu." 

"  The  Vishnu  !  "  cried  Despard,  start- 
ing to  his  feet,  while  his  whole  frame  was 
shaken  by  emotion  at  this  strange  nar- 
rative.   "The  Vishnu/" 

"Yes,  the  Vishnu/"  continued  the 
stranger.  "  You  know  what  that  means. 
For  many  years  that  vessel  had  lain 
there,  entombed  amid  the  sands,  until 
at  last  I — on  that  lon.;ly  isle — saw  the 
sands  swept  away  and  the  buried  sliip 
revealed.  I  went  on  board.  I  entered 
the  cabin.  I  passed  through  it.  At  last 
I  entered  a  room  at  the  corner.  A 
skeleton  lay  there.  Do  you  know  whose 
it  was?" 

"  W^hose  ?  "  cried  Despard  in  a  frenzy 
of  excitement. 

"  Vour  father's /"  said  the  stranger 
in  an  awful  voice. 

"  God  in  heaven  ! "  exclaimed  Despard, 
and  he  sank  back  into  his  seat. 

"In  his  hand  he  held  a  manuscript 


ROUSfcl)    AT    I.AST 


-•t>3 


il  was  roused  by 


Despard  in  a  frenzy 


said    the  stranger 


whicli  was  his  last  message  to  Ins  friends. 
It  was  enclosed  in  a  bottle.  The  storm 
Ii;i(l  prevented  lilin  from  throwing  it  over- 
lioard.  lie  held  it  tlierc  as  though  wait- 
in^r  for  someone  to  take  it.  I  was  the 
one  appointed  to  that  task.  I  took  it,  I 
ivad  it,  and  now  that  I  have  arrived  in 
Kn^lard  I   have  brought   it  to  you." 

"  Where  is  it  ?  "  cried  Despard  in  wild 
excitement. 

"  Here,"  said  the  stranger,  and  he  laid 
a  package  upon  the  table. 

Despard  seized  it,  and  tore  open  the 
coverings.  At  the  first  sight  he  recog- 
nized the  handwriting  of  his  father, 
familiar  to  him  from  old  letters  written  to 
liiin  when  he  was  a  child — letters  which 
he  had  always  preserved,  and  every  turn 
of  which  was  impressed  upon  his  memory. 
The  first  glance  was  sufficient  to  impress 
upon  his  mind  the  conviction  that  the 
stranger's  tale  was  true. 

Without  another  word  he  began  to  read 
it.  And  as  he  read  all  his  soul  became 
associated  with  that  lonely  man,  drifting 
in  his  drifting  ship.  There  he  read  the 
villainy  of  the  miscreant  who  had  com- 
passed his  death,  and  the  despair  of  the 
castaway. 

^hat  suffering  man  was  his  own 
father.  It  was  this  that  gave  intensity 
to  his  thoughts  as  he  read.  The  dying 
man  bequeathed  his  vengeance  to  Ralph 
Brandon,  and  his  blessing  to  his  son. 

Despard  read  over  the  manuscript 
many  times.  It  was  his  father's  wo;  Is 
to  himself. 

"  I  am  in  haste,"  said  the  stranger. 
"  The  manuscript  is  yours.  I  have  made 
enquiries  for  Ralph  Brandon,  and  find 
that  he  is  dead.  It  is  for  you  to  do  as 
seems  good.  You  are  a  clergyman,  but 
you  are  also  a  man  ;  and  a  father's  wrongs 
cry  to  Heaven  for  vengeance." 

"  And  they  shall  be  avenged  !  "    ex- 

i8 


claimed  Despard,  striking  his  clenched 
hand   upon   the  table. 

"  I  have  something  more  before  I  go," 
continued  the  stranger  mournfully— 
"  sonjething  which  you  will  prize  more 
than  life.  It  was  worn  next  your  father's 
heart  till  he  died.     I  found  it  there." 

Saying  this  he  handed  to  Despard  a 
miniature,  painted  on  enamel,  represent- 
ing a  beautiful  woman  whose  features 
were  like  his  own. 

"My  mother!"  cried  Despard  pas- 
sionately, and  he  covered  the  miniature 
with   kisses. 

"  I  buried  your  father,"  said  the 
stranger  after  a  long  pause.  "  His 
remains  now  lie  on  Cothn  Island  in  their 
last   resting  place." 

"  And  who  are  you  ?  What  are 
you?  How  did  you  find  me  out? 
What  is  your  object?"  cried  Despard 
eagerly. 

"  I  am  Mr.  Wheeler,"  said  the  stranger 
calmly  ;  "  and  I  come  to  give  you  these 
things  in  order  to  fulfil  my  duty  to  the 
dead.  It  remains  for  you  to  fulfil 
yours." 

"That  duty  shall  be  fulfilled!"  ex- 
claimed Despard.  "  The  law  does  not 
help  me  ;  I  will  help  myself.  I  know 
some  of  these  men  at  least.  I  will  do  the 
duty  of  a  son." 

The  stranger  bowed  and  withdrew. 

Despard  paced  the  room  for  hours.  A 
fierce  thirst  for  vengeance  had  taken  pos- 
session of  him.  Again  and  again  he  read 
the  manuscript,  and  after  each  reading 
his  vengeful  feeling  became  stronger. 

At  last  he  had  a  purpose.  He  was  no 
longer  the  imbecile — the  crushed— the 
hopeless.  In  the  full  knowledge  of  his 
father's  misery  his  own  became  en- 
durable. 

In  the  morning  he  saw  Langhetti  and 
told  him  all. 


a  64 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


"  But  who  is  the  strarger  ?  "  Pespard 
asked  in  wonder. 

"  It  can  only  be  one  person,"  said 
Langhotti  solemnly. 

"  Who  ?  " 

"  Louis  Brandon.  He  and  no  other. 
Who  else  could  thus  have  been  chosen 
to  find  the  dead  ?  He  has  his  wrongs 
also  to  avenge." 

Despard    was    silent.    Overwhelming 


thoughts  crowded  upon  him.  Was  this 
man  Louis  Brandon  ? 

"We  must  find  him,"  said  he.  "We 
must  gain  his  help  in  our  work.  We 
must  also  tell  him  about  Edith." 

"Yes,"  replied  Langhetti.  "But  no 
doubt  he  has  his  own  work  before 
him  ;  and  this  is  but  part  of  his  plan, 
to  rouse  you  from  inaction  to  ven- 
geance." 


CHAPTER  XLVni 

WHO  IS  HE? 


On  tht  morning  after  the  last  escape  of 
Beatrice,  Clark  went  up  to  Brandon  Ha!!. 
It  was  about  nine  o'cIock.  A  sullen 
frown  was  on  his  face,  which  was  per- 
vaded by  an  expression  of  savage  malig- 
nity. A  deeply  preoccupied  look,  as 
though  he  were  altogether  absorbed  in 
his  own  thoughts,  prevented  him  from 
noticing  the  half-smiles  which  the  serv- 
ants cast  at  one  another. 

Asgeelo  opened  the  door.  That  valu- 
able servant  was  at  his  post  as  usual. 
Clark  brushed  past  him  with  a  growl 
and  entered  the  dining  room. 

Potts  was  standing  in  front  of  the  fire 
with  a  flushed  face  and  savage  eyes. 
John  was  stroking  his  dog,  and  appeared 
quite  indifferent.  Clark,  however,  was 
too  much  taken  up  with  his  own  thoughts 
to  notice  Potts.  He  came  in  and  sat 
down  in  silence. 

"  Well,"  said  Potts,  "  did  you  do  that 
business  ?  " 

"  No,"  growled  Clark. 

"  No !  "  cried  Potts.  "  Do  you  mean  to 
say  you  didn't  follow  up  the  fellow  ?  " 


"  I  mean  to  say  it's  no  go,"  returned 
Clark.  "  I  did  what  I  could.  But  when 
you  are  after  a  man,  and  he  turns  oi:'-  to 
be  the  DEVIL  HIMSELF,  what  can  you 
do?" 

At  these  words,  which  were  spoken 
with  unusual  excitement,  John  gave  a 
low  laugh,  but  said  nothing. 

"  You've  been  getting  rather  soft  lately, 
it  seems  to  me,"  said.  Potts.  "  At  any 
rate,  what  did  you  do  ?  " 

"Well,"  said  Clark  slowly,  "I  went 
to  that  inn — to  watch  the  fellow.  He 
was  sitting  by  the  fire,  taking  it  very  easy. 
I  tried  to  make  out  whether  I  had  ever 
seen  him  before,  but  could  not.  He  sat 
by  the  fire  and  wouldn't  say  a  wor'  I 
tried  to  trot  him  out,  and  at  last  I  did  so, 
He  trotted  out  in  good  earnest,  and  if  any 
man  was  ever  kicked  at  and  ridden  rough- 
shod over,  I'm  that  individual.  He  isn't 
a  man — he's  Beelzebub.  i-le  knows 
everything.  He  began  in  a  playful  way 
by  taking  a  piece  of  charcoal  and  writing 
on  the  wall  some  marks  which  belong  to 
me,  and  which  I'm  a  little  delicate  about 


WHO   IS   HE  ? 


265 


n  him.    Was  this 


letting  people  see;  in  fact  the  Botany 
Bay  marks." 

"  Did  he  know  that  ?  "  cried  Potts, 
aghast. 

"  Not  only  knew  it,  but,  as  I  was  say- 
ing, marked  it  on  the  wall.  That's  a 
sign  of  knowledge.  And  for  fear  they 
wouldn't  be  understood,  he  kindly  ex- 
plained to  about  a  dozen  people  present 
the  particular  meaning  of  each." 

"  The  devil ! "  said  John. 

"  That's  what  I  said  he  was,"  rejoined 
Clark  dryly.  "But  that's  nothing.  I 
remember  when  I  was  a  little  boy,"  he 
continued  pensively,  "  hearing  the  par- 
son read  about  some  handwriting  on  the 
wall,  that  frightened  Beelzebub  himself ; 
but  I  tell  you  this  handwriting  on  the 
wall  used  me  up  a  good  deal  more  than 
the  other.  Still,  what  followed  was 
worse." 

Clark  T;ciused  for  a  little  while,  and 
then,  taking  a  long  breath,  went  on. 

"  He  proceeded  to  give  to  the  assem- 
bled company  an  account  of  my  life, 
particularly  that  very  interesting  part  of 
it  which  I  passed  on  my  last  visit  to 
Botany  Bay.    You  know  my  escape  ?  " 

He  stopped  for  a  while. 

"  Did  he  know  about  that  too  ?  "  asked 
Potts,  with  some  agitation. 

"Johnnie,"  said  Clark,  "he  knew  a 
precious  sight  more  than  you  do,  and 
told  some  things  which  I  had  forgotten 
myself.  Why,  that  devil  stood  up  there 
and  slowly  told  the  company  not  only 
what  I  did  but  what  I  felt.  He  brought 
it  all  back.  He  told  how  I  looked  at 
Stubbs,  and  how  Stubbs  looked  at  me  in 
the  boat.  He  told  how  we  sat  looking 
at  each  other,  each  in  our  own  :nd  of  the 
boai." 

Clark  stopped  again,  f»nd  no  one  spoke 
for  a  long  time. 

"  I  k'it  my  breath  and   ran  out,"  he 


i^sumcd,  "  and  I  was  afraid  to  go  back. 
I  did  so  at  last.  It  was  then  almost  mid- 
night. I  found  him  still  sitting  there. 
He  smiled  at  me  in  a  way  that  fairly  made 
my  blood  run  cold.  '  Crocker,'  said  he, 
'  sit  down.' " 

At  this  Potts  and  John  looked  at  each 
other  in  horror. 

"  He  knows  that  too  ?  "  said  John. 

"  Everything, '  returned  Clark  de- 
jectedly. "  Well,  when  he  said  that  I 
looked  a  little  surprised,  as  you  may  be 
sure. 

" '  I  thought  you'd  be  back,'  said  he, 
'  for  you  want  to  see  me,  you  know. 
You're  going  to  follow  me,'  says  he. 
'  You've  got  your  pistols  all  ready,  so,  as 
I  always  like  to  oblige  a  friend,  I'll  give 
you  a  chance.    Come.' 

"  At  this  I  fairly  staggered. 

"  '  Come,'  says  he,  '  I've  got  all  that 
money,  and  Potts  wants  it  back.  And 
you're  going  to  get  it  from  me.    Come.' 

"  I  swear  to  you  I  could  not  move.  He 
smiled  at  me  as  before,  and  quietly  got 
up  and  left  the  house.  I  stood  for  some 
time  fixed  to  the  spot.  At  last  I  grew 
icckless.  '  If  he's  the  devil  himself,'  says 
I, 'I'll  have  it  out  with  him.'  I  rushed 
out  and  followed  in  his  pursuit.  After 
some  time  I  overtook  him.  He  was  on 
horseback,  but  his  horse  was  walking. 
He  heard  me  coming.  '  Ah,  Crocker," 
says  he,  quite  merrily,  '  so  you've  come, 
have  you  ?  ' 

"  I  tc  e  my  pistol  (rovr.  my  pocket  and 
fired.  The  only  reply  was  a  loud  laugh. 
He  went  on  without  turning  his  head.  I 
V.  as  now  sure  that  it  was  the  devil,  but  I 
fired  my  other  pistol.  He  gave  a  tremen- 
dous laugh,  turned  his  horse,  and  rode 
full  at  me.  His  horse  seemed  as  large 
as  the  village  church.  Everything  swam 
around,  and  I  fell  head  foremost  on  the 
ground.     I  believe  I  lay  there  all  night, 


266 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


^ 


When  I  came  to  it  was  morning,  and  I 
hurried  straight  here." 

As  he  ended  Clarlc  rose,  and,  going  to 
the  sideboard,  poured  out  a  large  glass 
of  brandy,  which  he  drank  raw. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  John,  after  long 
thought,  "you've  been  tricked.  This 
fellow  has  doctored  your  pistols  and 
frightened   you." 

"  But  I  loaded  them  myself,"  replied 
Clark. 

"  When  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  always  keep  them  loaded  in 
my  room.  I  tried  them,  and  found  the 
charge  was  in  them." 

"  Oh,  somebody's  fixed  them." 

"  I  don't  think  half  as  much  about  the 
pistols  as  about  what  he  told  me.  What 
devil  could  have  put  all  that  into  his 
head?     Answer  me  that,"  said  Clark. 

"Somebody's  at  work  around  us,"  said 
John.    "  I  feel  it  in  my  bones." 

"  We're  getting  used  up,"  said  Potts. 
"  The  girl's  gone  again." 

"  The  girl !    Gone  !  " 

"  Yes,  and  Mrs.  Compton,  too." 

"The  devil!" 

"  I'd  rather  lose  the  girl  than  Mrs. 
Compton ;  but  when  they  botli  vanish 
the  same  night  what  are  you  to 
think  ?  " 

"  I  think  the  devil  is  loose." 

"  I'm  afraid  he's  turned  against  us," 
said  Potts  in  a  regretful  tone.  "  He's 
got  tired  o'  helping  us." 

"  Do  none  of  the  servants  know  any- 
thing about  it?" 

"  No — none  of  them." 

"  Have  you  asked  them  all  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Doesn't  that  new  servant,  the 
Injin?" 

"  No  ;  they  all  went  to  bed  at  twelve. 
Vijal  was  up  as  late  as  two.  Tliey  all 
■wear  that  everything  was  quieti" 


"  Did  they  go  out  through  the  doors  ? " 

"  The  doors  were  all  locked  as  usual." 

"  There's  treachery  somewhere ! "  criecl 
John,  with  more  excitement  than  usual. 

The  others  were  silent. 

"  I  believe  that  the  girl's  at  the  bottom 
of  it  all,"  said  John.  "  We've  been  try- 
ing  to  take  her  down  ever  since  she  came, 
but  it's  my  belief  that  we'll  end  by  getting 
took  down  ourselves.  I  was  against  her 
being  sent  for  from  the  first.  I  scented 
bad  luck  in  her  at  the  other  side  of  the 
world.  We've  been  acting  like  fools. 
We  ought  to  have  silenced  her  at  first." 

"  No,"  rejoined  Potts  gloomily. 
"  There's  somebody  at  work  deeper  than 
she  is.    Somebody — but  who? — who?" 

"Nobody  but  the  devil,"  said  Clark 
firmly. 

"  I've  been  thinking  about  that  Italian," 
continued  Potts.  "  He's  the  only  man 
living  that  would  bother  his  head  about 
the  girl.  They  know  a  good  deal  between 
them.  I  thmk  he's  managed  some  of  tiiis 
last  business.  He's  humbugged  us.  It 
isn't  the  devil;  it's  this  Italian.  We 
must  look  out ;  he'll  be  around  here 
again  perhaps." 

Clark's  eyes  brightened. 

"  The  next  time,"  said  he,  "  I'll  load 
my  pistols  fresh,  and  then  see  if  he'll 
escape  me !  " 

At  this  a  noise  was  heard  in  the  hall, 
Potts  went  out.  The  servants  had  been 
scouring  the  grounds  as  before,  but  with 
no  result. 

"  No  use,"  said  John.  "  I  tried  it  with 
my  dog.  He  went  straight  down  through 
the  gate,  and  a  little  distance  outside  the 
scent  was  lost.  I  tried  him  with  Mrs, 
Compton  too.  They  both  went  together, 
and  of  course  had  horses  or  carriages 
there." 

"  What  does  the  porter  say  ?  "  asked 
Clark, 


S 


THE   RUN    ON    THE    BANK 


267 


"He  swears  that  he  was  up  till  two, 
and  then  went  to  bed;  and  that  nobody 
was  near  the  gate." 

"Well,  we  can't  do  anything,"  'said 
Potts ;  "  but  I'll  send  some  of  the 
servants  off  to  see  what  they  can 
hear.     The    scent    was   lost   so    soon 


that  we  can't  tell  what  direction  they 
took." 

"You'll  never  get  her  again,"  said 
John ;  "  she's  gone  for  good  this  time." 

Potts  swore  a  deep  oath  and  relapsed 
into  silence.  After  a  time  they  all  went 
down  to  the  bank. 


CHAPTER   XLIX 


THE  RUN   ON   THE  BANK 


heard  in  the  hall, 

servants  had  been 

as  before,  but  wiih 


sorter  say?"  asked 


Not  long  after  the  bank  opened  a 
number  of  people  came  in  who  asked 
for  gold  in  return  for  some  banknotes 
which  they  offered.  This  was  an 
unusual  circumstance.  The  people 
also  were  strangers.  Potts  wondered 
what  it  could  mean.  There  was  no 
help  for  it,  however.  The  gold  was 
paid  out,  and  Potts  and  his  friends 
began  to  feel  somewhat  alarmed  at  ti.e 
thought  which  now  presented  itself  for 
the  first  time,  that  their  very  large  cir- 
culation of  notes  might  be  returned 
upon  them.  He  communicated  this 
fear  to   Clark. 

"  How  much  gold  have  you  ?  " 

"  Very  little." 

"How  much?" 

"  Thirty  thousand." 

"  Phew  !  "  said  Clark,  "  and  nearly  two 
hundred  thousand  out  in  notes  !" 

Potts  was  silent. 

"  What  '11  you  do  if  there  is  a  run  on 
the  bank  ?  " 

"  Oh,  there  won't  be." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  My  credit  is  too  good." 

"  Your  credit  won't  be  worth  a  rush  if 
people  know  this." 


While  they  talked  persons  kept  drop- 
ping in.  Most  of  the  villagers  and  people 
of  the  neighborhood  brought  back  the 
notes,  demanding  gold.  By  about  twelve 
o'clock  tlie  influx  was  constant. 

Potts  began  to  feel  alarmed.  He  went 
out,  and  tried  to  bully  some  of  the 
villagers.  They  did  not  seem  to  pay  any 
attention  to  him,  however.  Potts  went 
back  to  his  parlor  discomfited,  vowing 
vengeance  against  those  who  had  thus 
slighted  him.  The  worst  of  these  was 
the  tailor,  who  brought  in  notes  to  the 
extent  of  a  thousand  pounds,  and  when 
Potts  ordered  him  out  and  told  him  to 
wait,  only  laughed  in  his  face. 

"  Haven't  you  got  gold  enough  ?  "  said 
the  tailor,  with  a  sneer.  "  Are  you  afraid 
of  the  bank  ?    Well,  old  Potts,  so  am  I." 

At  this  there  was  a  general  laugh 
among  the  people. 

The  bank  clerks  did  not  at  all  sym- 
pathize with  the  bank.  They  were  too 
eager  to  pay  out.  Potts  had  to  check 
them.  He  called  them  in  his  parlor,  and 
ordered  them  to  pay  out  more  slowly. 
They  all  declared  that  they  couldn't. 

The  day  dragged  on  till  at  last  three 
o'clock  came.    Fifteen  thousand  pounds 


268 


CORD    AND    CREESE 


had  been  paid  out.  Potts  fell  into  deep 
despondency.  Clark  had  remained 
throughout  the   whole   morning. 

"  There's  going  to  be  a  run  on  the 
bank,"  said  he.     "  It's  only  begun." 

Potts'  sole  answer  was  a  curse. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  You'll  have  to  help  me,"  replied 
Potts.    "  You've  got  something." 

"  I've  got  fifty  thousand  pounds  in  the 
Plymouth  bank." 

"  You'll  have  to  let  me  have  it." 

Clark  hesitated. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  he. 

"  D n  it,   man,  I'll  give  you   any 

security  you  wish.  I've  got  more  secur- 
ity than  I  know  what  to  do  with." 

"  Well,"  said  Clark,  "  I  don't  know. 
There's  a  risk." 

"  I  only  want  it  for  a  few  days.  I'll 
send  down  stock  to  my  London  broker 
and  have  it  sold.  It  will  give  me  hun- 
dreds of  thousands — twice  as  much  as 
all  the  bank  issue.    Then   I'll  pay  up 

these  devils  well,  and  that  d n  tailor 

worst  of  all.  I  swear  I'll  send  it  all  down 
to-day,  and  have  every  bit  of  it  sold.  If 
there's  going  to  be  a  run,  I'll  be  ready  for 
them." 

"  How  much  have  you  ?  " 

"  I'll  send  it  all  down — though  I'm 
devilish  sorry,"  continued  Potts,  "  How 
much  ?  why,  see  here ; "  and  he  pencilled 
down  the  following  figures  on  a  piece  of 
paper,  which  he  showed  to  Clark  : 

California  Company, 
Mexican  bonds,        .... 
Guatemala  bonds,  ... 

Venezuela  bonds,  .        .        .        , 


;^100,000 
50,000 
50,000 
50,000 

;C2SO,000 


"  What  do  you  think  ot  ♦b'»t,  mv  boy  ?  " 
said  Potts. 

"Well,"  retui ••.*<'  Ciark  cautiously, 
"  I  don't  like  tvrm  Avnchcan  names." 


"  Why,"  said  Potts,  "  the  stock  is  at  a 
premium.  I've  been  getting  from  twenty 
to  twenty-five  per  cent,  dividends. 
They'll  sell  for  three  hundred  thousand 
nearly.  I'll  sell  them  all— I'll  sell  them 
all,"  he  cried.  •'  I'll  have  gold  enough 
to  put  a  stop  to  this  sort  of  thing  for- 
ever." 

"  I  thought  you  had  some  French  and 
Russian  bonds,"  said  Clark. 

"  I  gave  those  to  that  devil  who  had 
the — the  papers,  you  know.  He  consent- 
ed to  take  them,  and  I  was  very  glad,  for 
they  paid  less  than  the  others." 

Clark  was  silent.. 

"  Why,  man,  what  are  you  thinking 
about  ?  Don't  you  know  that  I'm  good  for 
two  millions,  what  with  my  estate  and 
my  stock  ?  " 

"But  you  owe  an  infernal  lot." 

"  And  haven't  I  notes  and  other  securi- 
ties from  everybody  }  " 

"  Yes,  from  everybody ;  but  how  can 
you  get  hold  of  them  ?  " 

"  The  first  people  of  the  county." 

•'  And  as  poor  as  rats." 

"  London  merchants !  " 

"  Who  are  they  ?  How  can  you  get 
back  your  money  ?  " 

"  Smithers  &  Co.  will  let  me  have  what 
I  want." 

"  If  Smithers  &  Co.  knew  the  present 
state  of  affairs  I  rather  think  that  they'd 
back  down." 

"  Pooh  i  What !  Back  down  from  a 
man  with  my  means  !  Nonsense !  They 
know  how  rich  I  am,  or  they  never  wouli' 
have  begun.  Come,  don't  be  a  fool, 
It  '11  take  three  days  to  get  gold  for  my 
stock,  and  if  you  don't  help  me  the  bank 
may  stop  before  I  get  it.  If  you'll  help 
me  fcr  three  days  I'll  pay  you  well." 

"  1  iow  much  will  you  give  ?  " 

"  I'll  give  ten  thousand  pounds — there! 
i  oon't  mind." 


THE   RUN    ON    THE    BANK 


269 


'  the  stock  is  at  a 
tting  from  twenty 
cent,  dividends, 
undred  thousand 
all— I'll  sell  them 
ave  gold  enough 
jort  of  thing  for- 

some  French  and 
lark. 

at  devil  who  had 
low.  He  consent- 
was  very  glad,  for 
others." 

are  you  thinking 
I  that  I'm  good  for 
th  my  estate  and 

ernal  lot." 

3  and  other  secuii- 

»dy ;  but  how  can 

If 

the  county." 

s." 

!" 

■low  can  you  get 

let  me  have  wliat 

cnew  the  present 
think  that  they'd 

ick  down  from  a 
Nonsense !    Tliey 

they  never  would 

don't  be  a  fool. 
)  get  gold  for  my 
help  me  the  bank 

it.  If  you'll  help 
lay  you  well." 

give?  " 
id  pounds— there ! 


••  Done  !  Give  me  your  note  for  sixty 
thousand  pounds,  and  I'll  let  you  have 
the  fifty  thousand  for  three  days." 

"  All  right.  You've  goi  me  where 
my  hair  is  short,  but  I  don't  mind. 
When  can  I  have  the   money  ? " 

"  The  day  after  to-morrow.  I'll  go  to 
Plymouth  now,  get  the  money  to  morrow, 
and  you  can  use  it  the  next  day." 

"  All  right ;  I'll  send  down  John  to 
London  with  the  stock,  and  he'll  bring  up 
the  gold  at  once." 

Clark  started  off  immediately  for  Plym- 
outh, and  not  long  after  John  went 
away  to  London.  Potts  remained  to 
await  the  storm  which  he  dreaded. 

The  next  day  came.  The  bank  opened 
late  on  purpose.  Potts  put  up  a  notice 
that  it  was  to  be  closed  that  day  at 
twelve,  on  account  of  the  absence  of 
some  of  the  directors. 

At  about  eleven  the  crowd  of  people 
began  to  make  their  appearance  as  be- 
fore. Their  demands  were  somewhat 
larger  than  on  the  previous  day.  Before 
twelve,  ten  thousand  pounds  had  been 
paid.  At  twelve  the  bank  was  shut  in 
the  faces  of  the  clamorous  people,  in 
accordance  with   the  notice. 

Strangers  were  there  from  all  parts  of 
the  county.  The  village  inn  was  crowded, 
and  a  large  number  of  carriages  was 
outside.  Potts  began  to  look  forward  to 
the  next  day  with  deep  anxiety.  Only 
five  thousand  pounds  remained  in  the 
bar'..  One  man  had  come  with  notes  to 
the  extent  of  five  thousand,  and  had  only 
been  got  rid  of  by  the  shutting  of  the 
bank.     He  left,  vowing  vengeance. 

To  Potts'  immense  relief  Clark  made 
his  appearance  early  on  the  following  day. 
He  had  brought  the  money.  Potts  gave 
him  his  note  for  sixty  thousand  pounds, 
and  the  third  day  began. 

By  ten  o'clock  the  doors  were  besieged 


by  the  largest  crowd  that  had  ever  as- 
sembled in  this  quiet  village.  Another 
host  of  lookers-on  had  collected.  When 
the  doors  were  opened  they  poured  in 
with  a  rush. 

The  demands  on  this  third  day  were 
very  large.  The  man  with  the  five  thou- 
sand had  fought  his  way  to  the  counter 
first,  and  clamored  to  be  paid.  The 
noise  and  confusion  were  overpowering. 
Everybody  was  cursing  the  bank  or 
laughing  at  it.  Each  one  felt  doutitful 
about  getting  liis  pay.  Potts  tried  to  be 
dignified  for  a  time.  He  ordered  them 
to  be  quiet,  and  assured  them  that  they 
would  all  be  paid.  His  voice  was 
drowned  in  the  wild  uproar.  The  clerks 
counte>'  out  the  gold  as  rapidly  as  possi- 
ble, in  s^  ite  of  the  remonstrances  of  Potts, 
who  on  'iree  occasions  called  them  all 
into  the  parlor,  and  threatened  to  dis- 
miss them  unless  they  counted  more 
slowly.  His  threats  were  disregarded. 
They  went  back,  and  paid  out  as  rapidly 
as  before.  The  amounts  reiP-'ired  ranged 
from  five  or  ten  pounds  to  thousands  of 
pounds.  At  last,  after  paying  cU  thou- 
sands, one  man  came  up  who  had  notes 
to  the  amount  of  ten  thousand  pounds. 
This  WPS  the  largest  demand  that  had  yet 
been  made.  It  was  doubtful  whether 
there  was  so  large  an  amount  left.  Potts 
came  out  to  see  him.  There  was  no  help 
for  it ;  he  had  to  parley  with  the  enem 

He  told  him  that  it  was  within  a  ftw 
minutes  of  three,  and  that  it  would  ike 
an  hour  at  least  to  count  out  so  mucn — 
would  he  not  wait  till  the  next  day  ? 
There  would   be  ar.  pie  time  then. 

The  man  had  no  objection.  It  was  all 
the  same  to  him.  He  went  out  with  his 
bundle  of  notes  through  the  crowd,  tell- 
ing them  that  the  bank  could  not  p.ii^ 
him.  This  intelligence  made  the  excite- 
ment still  greater.    There  was  a  fierce 


270 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


o 


I 


^^ 


rush  to  the  counter.  The  clerks  worked 
hard,  and  paid  out  what  they  could  in 
spite  of  the  hints  and  even  the  threats  of 
Potts,  till  at  length  the  bank  clock  struck 
the  hour  of  three.  It  had  been  put  for- 
ward twenty  minutes,  and  there  was 
a  great  riot  among  the  people  on  that 
account,  but  they  could  not  do  anything. 
The  bank  was  closed  for  the  day,  and 
they  had  to  depart. 

Both  Potts  and  Clark  now  waited 
eagerly  for  the  return  of  John.  He  was 
expected  before  the  next  day.  He  ought 
to  be  in  by  midnight.  After  waiting 
impatiently  for  hours  they  at  lenp;lh  drove 
out  to  see  if  they  could  find  hiin. 

About  twelve  miles  from  Brandon  they 
met  him  at  midnight  with  a  team  of 
horses  and  a  number  of  men,  all  of  whom 
were  armed. 

*'  Have  you  got  it  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  John,  "what  there  is  of 
it. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  " 

"  I'm  too  tired  to  explain.  Wait  till 
we  get  home." 

It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  mornmg  be- 
fore they  reached  the  bank.  The  gold 
was  taken  out  and  deposited  in  the 
vaults,  and  the  three  went  up  to  the  Hall. 
They  brought  out  brandy  and  refreshed 
themselves,  after  which  John  remarked, 
in  his  usual  laconic  style  : 

"  You've  been  and  gone  and  done  it." 

"  What  ?  "  asked  Potts,  somewhat 
puzzled. 

"  With  your  speculations  in  stocks." 

"  What  about  them  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  John,  "  only  they  hap- 
pen to  be  at  a  small  discount." 

"A  discount?" 

"  .^lightly." 

Potts  was  silent. 

"  How  much  ?  "  asked  Clark. 

"  I  have  a  statement  here,"  said  John, 


"When  I  got  to  London,  I  saw  the 
broker.  He  said  that  American  stocks, 
particularly  those  which  I  held,  had 
undergone  a  great  depreciation.  He 
assured  me  that  it  was  only  temporary, 
that  the  dividends  which  these  stocks  paid 
were  enough  to  raise  them  in  a  short  time, 
perhaps  in  a  few  weeks,  and  that  it  was 
madness  to  sell  out  now.  He  declared 
that  it  would  ruin  the  credit  of  the  Bran- 
don Bank  if  it  were  known  that  we  sold 
out  at  such  a  fearful  sacrifice,  and 
advised  me  to  raise  the  money  at  a  less 
cost. 

"  Well,  I  could  only  think  of  Smithers 
&  Co.  I  went  to  their  office.  They 
were  all  away.  I  saw  one  of  the  clerks, 
who  said  they  had  gone  to  see  about 
some  Russian  loan  or  other,  so  there  was 
nothing  to  do  but  to  go  back  to  the 
broker.  He  assured  me  again  that  it 
was  an  unheard-of  sacrifice ;  that  these 
very  slocks  which  I  held  had  fallen  terri- 
bly, he  knew  not  how,  anrl  advised  me  to 
do  anything  rather  than  make  such  a 
sacrifice.  But  I  could  do  nothing.  Gold 
was  what  I  wanted,  and  since  Smithers 
&  Co.  were  away  this  was  the  only  way 
to  get  it." 

"  Well ! "  cried  Potts  eagerly,  "  Did 
you  get  it  ?  " 

"  You  saw  that  I  got  it.  I  sold  out  at 
a  cost  that  is  next  to  ruin." 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  John,  "  I  wi'^  give  you 
the  statement  of  the  broker,"  and  he  drew 
from  his  pocket  a  paper  which  he  handed 
to  the  others.     They  looked  at  it  eagerly, 

It  was  as  follows  : 


100  shares  California  at  ;£iooo  each,    65  per 

cent,  discount, 

50  shares  Mexican,  75  per  cent,  discount,  . 
50  shares  Guatemala.  80  per  cent,  disi:ount, 
50  shares  Venezuela,    80  per  cent,  discount. 


12,500 
10,000 

10,000 

/;ti7,500 


THE    RUN    ON    THE    BANlC 


271 


tts  eagerly.    "  Did 


The  faces  of  Pot^s  and  Clark  grew 
black  as  night  as  they  read  this.  A  deep 
execration  burst  from  Potts.  Clark  leaned 
back  in  his  chair. 

"The  bank's  blown  up!"  said  he. 

"  No,  it  aint,"  rejoined  Potts. 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  There's  gold  enough  to  pay  all  that's 
likely  to  be  offered." 

"  How  much  more  do  you  think  will 
be  offered  }  " 

"  Not  much  ;  it  stands  to  reason." 

"  It  stands  to  reason  that  every  note 
which  you've  issued  will  be  sent  back  to 
you.  So  I'll  trouble  you  to  give  me  my 
sixty  thousand  ;  and  I  advise  you  as  a 
friend  to  hold  on  to  the  rest." 

"  Clark  !  "  said  Potts,  "  you're  getting 
timider  and  timider.  You  aint  got  ?ny 
more  pluck  these  times  than  a  kitten." 

"  It's  a  time  when  a  man's  got  to  be  care- 
ful of  his  earnings,"  said  Clark.  "  How 
much  have  you  out  in  notes  ?  You  told 
me  once  you  had  out  about  _;^  180,000, 
l)erhaps  more.  Well,  you've  already  had 
to  redeem  about  £7$,ooo.  That  leaves 
^105,000  yet,  and  you've  only  got  ^67,- 
500  to  pay  it  with.  What  have  you  got 
to  say  to  that  ?  " 

"  Well  i "  said  Potts.  "  The  Brandon 
Bank  may  go — but  what  then  ?  You 
forget  that  I  have  the  Brandon  estate. 
That's  worth  two  millions." 

"  You  got  it  for  two  hundred  thou- 
sand ?  " 

"  Because  it  was  thrown  away  and 
dropped  into  my  hands." 

"  It  '11  be  thrown  away  again  at  this 
rate.     You  owe  Smithers  &  Co." 

"  Pooh !  that's  all  offset  by  securities 
which  I  hold." 

"  Queer  securities ! " 

"Ail  good,"  said  Potts.  "All  first- 
rate.  It  '11  be  all  right.  We'll  have  to 
put  it  through." 


"  But  what  if  it  isn't  all  right  ?"  asked 
Clark  savagely. 

"You  forget  that  I  have  Smithers  & 
Co.  to  fall  back  on." 

"  If  your  bank  breaks,  there  is  an  end 
of  Smithers  &  Co." 

"  Oh,  no.  I've  got  this  estate  to  fall  back 
on,  and  they  know  it,  I  can  easily  explain 
to  them.  If  they  had  only  been  in  town 
I  she  Idn't  have  had  to  make  this  sacri- 
fice. You  needn't  feel  troubled  about 
your  money,  I'll  give  you  security  on 
the  estate  to  any  amount,  I'll  give 
you  security  for  seventy  thousand,"  said 
Potts, 

Clark  thought  for  a  while, 

"  Well !  "  said  he,  "  it's  a  risk,  but  I'll 
run  it." 

"  There  isn't  time  to  get  a  lawyer  now 
to  make  out  the  papers;  but  "-henever 
you  fetch  one  I'll  do  it." 

"  I'll  get  one  to-day  and  you  .■  •;^n  the 
papers  this  evening.  In  my  opinion  by 
that  time  the  bank  '11  be  shut  up  for  good 
and  you're  a  fool  for  your  pains.  You're 
simply  throwing  away  what  gold  you 
have." 

Potts  went  down  not  long  after.  It 
was  the  fourth  day  of  the  run.  Miscel- 
laneous callers  thronged  the  place,  but 
the  amounts  w'ere  not  large.  In  two 
hours  not  more  than  five  thousand  were 
paid  out. 

At  length  a  man  came  in  with  a  carpet- 
bag. He  pulled  out  a  vast  quantity  of 
notes. 

"  How  much  ? "  asked  the  clerk 
blandly. 

"  Thirty  thousand  pounds,"  said  the 
man. 

Potts  heard  this  and  came  out, 

"  How  much  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Thirty  thousand  pounds." 

"  Do  you  want  it  in  gold?  " 

"  Of  course." 


372 


CORD   AND   CREESE 


li- 
es 


"Will  you  take  a  draft  on  Messrs. 
Smitliers  &  Co.?" 

"  No,  I  want  gold." 

While  Potts  was  talking  to  this  man 
another  was  waiting  patiently  beside 
him.  Of  course  this  imperative  claimant 
had  to  be  paid  or  else  the  bank  would 
have  to  stop,  and  this  was  a  casuiilty 
which  Potts  could  not  yet  face  with 
calmness.  Before  it  came  to  that  he 
was  determined  to  pay  out  his  last 
sovereign. 

On  paying  the  thirty  thousand  pounds 
it  was  found  that  there  were  only  two 
bags  left  of  two  thousand  pcnds  each. 

The  other  man  who  had  waited  stood 
calmly,  while  the  one  who  had  been  paid 
was  making  arrangements  about  convey- 
ing bis  money  away. 

t ;  ,  now  two  o'clock.  The  stranger 
said  quietly  to  ♦hf  clerk  opposite  that  he 
wanted  gold. 

"  How  much  ?  "  said  the  clerk,  with 
the  same  blandness. 


"Forty  thousand  pounds."  answered 
the  stranger. 

"  Sorry  we  can't  accommodate  you, 
sir,"  returned  the  clerk. 

Potts  had  heard  this  and  came  for- 
ward. 

"  Won't  you  take  a  draft  on  London  >  " 
said  he. 

"  Can't,"  replied  the  man  ;  "  I  was 
ordered  to  get  gold." 

"  A  draft  on  Smithers  &  Co.  ?  " 

"  Couldn't  take  even  Bank  of  England 
notes,"  said  the  stranger  "  I'm  only  an 
agent.  If  you  can't  accommodate  me 
I'm  sorry,  I'm  sure." 

Potts  was  silent.  His  face  was 
ghastly.  As  much  agony  as  such  a 
man  could  endure  was  feli  by  him  at 
that  moment. 

Half  an  hour  afterward  the  shutters 
were  up;  and  outside  the  door  stooil 
a  wild  and  riotous  crowd,  the  most  noisy 
of  whom  was  the  tailor. 

The  Brandon  Bank  had  failed. 


CHAPTER  L 


THE   BANK   DIRECTORS 


The  bank  doors  were  closed,  and  the 
bank  directors  were  left  to  their  own  re- 
flections. Clark  had  been  in  through  the 
day,  and  at  the  critical  moment  his  feelings 
had  overpowered  him  so  much  that  he 
felt  compelled  to  go  over  to  the  inn  to  get 
something  to  drink,  wherewith  he  might 
refresh  himself  and  keep  up  his  spirits. 

Potts  and  John  remained  in  the  bank 
parlor.  The  clerks  had  gone.  Potts  was 
in  that  state  of  dejection  in  which  even 
liquor  was  not  desirable.  John  showed 
his  usual  nonchalance. 


"Well,  Johnnie,"  said  Potts,  after  a 
long  silence,  "  we're  used  up  1 " 

"The  bank's  bursted,  that's  a  fact. 
You  were  a  fool  for  fighting  it  out  so 
long." 

"  I  might  as  well.  I  was  responsible, 
at  any  rate." 

"  You  might  have  kept  your  gold." 

"  Then  my  estate  would  have  been 
good.  Besides,  I  hoped  to  tight  througii 
this  difficulty.  In  fact,  I  hadn't  anything 
else  to  do." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 


THE    BANK    DIKLCTORS 


373 


inds,"  answered 


commodate  you, 

c. 

;  and  came  for- 


aft  on  London  >  " 


man  ;    "  I    was 


was  responsible, 


"  Smithers  &  Co." 

"  Ah,  yes !  " 

"  They'll  be  down  on  me  now.  That's 
what  I  was  afraid  of  all  along." 

"  How  much  do  you  owe  them  ?  " 

"  Seven  hundred  and  two  thousand 
pounds." 

"  The  devil !  I  thought  it  was  only 
live  iiundred  thousand." 

"  It's  been  growing  every  day.  It's  a 
dreadful  dangerous  thing  to  have  un- 
limited credit." 

"  Well,  you've  got  something  as  an  off- 
set— the  debts  due  the  bank." 

"Johnnie,"  said  Potts,  taking  a  long 
breath,  "since  Clark  isn't  here  I  don't 
mind  telling  you  that  my  candid  opinion 
is  them  debts  isn't  worth  a  rush.  A 
great  crowd  of  people  came  here  for 
money.  I  didn't  hardly  ask  a  question. 
I  shelled  out  royally.  I  wanted  to  be 
known,  so  as  to  get  into  Parliament  some 
day.  I  did  what  is  called  'going  it 
blind.'  " 

*'  How  much  is  owing  you  ?  " 

"  The  books  say  five  hundred  and  thir- 
teen thousand  pounds—but  it's  doubt- 
ful if  I  can  get  any  of  it.  And  now 
Smithers  &  Co.  will  be  down  on  me 
at  once." 

"  What  do  you  intend  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Haven't  you  thought  ?  " 

"  No,  I  couldn't." 

"  Well,  I  have." 

"  What  ?  " 

"  You'll  have  to  try  to  compromise." 

"  What  if  they  won't  ?  " 

John  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  said 
nothing. 

"  After  all,"  resumed  Potts  hopefully, 
"  it  can't  be  so  bad.  The  estate  is  worth 
two  millions." 

"  Pooh ! " 

"  Isn't  it  ?  " 


You  know  what  you 


it     was     thrown 


They 

don't 
I've 


"  Of  course  not 
bought  it  for." 

"  That's     because 
away." 

"  Well,  it  '11  have  to  be  thrown  away 
again." 

"Oh,  Smilhers&  Co.  'II  be  easy, 
don't  care  for  money." 

"  Perhaps    so.    The    fact    is,  I 
understand  Smithers  &  Co.  at  all 
tried  to  see  through  their  little  game,  but 
can't  begin  to  do  it." 

"  Oh,  that's  easy  enough  !  They  knew 
I  was  rich,  and  let  me  have  what  money 
I  wanted." 

John  looked  doubtful. 

At  this  moment  a  rap  was  heard  at 
the  back  door, 

"  There  comes  Clark  ! "  said  he. 

Potts  opened  the  door.  Clark  entered. 
His  face  was  flushed,  and  his  eyes  blood- 
shot. 

"  See  here,"  said  he  mysteriously,  as 
he  entered  the  room. 

"  What  }  "  asked  the  others  anxiously. 

"  There's  two  chaps  at  the  inn.  One 
is  the  /talian " 

"  Langhetti !  " 

"  Ay,"  said  Clark  gloomily  ;  "  and  the 
other  is  his  mate — that  fellow  that  helped 
him  to  carry  off  the  gal.  They've  done 
it  again  this  time,  and  my  opinion  is 
that  these  fellows  are  at  the  bottom  of 
all  our  troubles.  You  know  whose  son 
he  is." 

Potts  and  John  exchanged  glances. 

"  I  went  after  that  devil  once,  and  I'm 
going  to  try  it  again.  This  time  I'll 
take  someone  who  isn't  afraid  of  the 
devil.  Johnnie,  is  the  dog  at  the 
Hall  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  All  right ! "  said  Clark.  "  I'll  be  even 
with  this  fellow  yet,  if  he  is  in  league  with 
the  devil." 


•74 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


With  these  words  Clark  went  out,  and  |  he,  "  all   right,  and   if  he  doesn't,  why 
left  the  two  together.    A  glance  of  sav-   then  "—he  paused. 


age  exultation  passed  over  the  face  of 
Potts. 
"  If  he  comes  back  successful,"  said 


"  If  he  doesn't  come  back,"  said  John, 
finishing  the  sentence  for  him,  "  why 
then — all  righter." 


CHAPTER   LI 


A   STRUGGLE 


5 


I 


At  ;  t!i.^  iVrMolution  which  for  a  time 
had  characterized  Despard  had  vanished 
before  the  shock  of  that  great  discovery 
which  his  father's  manuscript  had  re- 
vealed to  him.  One  purpose  now  lay 
clearly  and  vividly  before  him — one  which 
to  so  loyal  and  devoted  a  nature  as  his 
was  the  holiest  duty,  and  that  was  ven- 
geance or  hi«  father's  murderers. 

In  this  purpose  he  took  refuge  from 
his  own  grief;  he  cast  aside  his  own 
longings,  his  anguish,  his  despair.  Lan- 
ghetti  wished  to  search  after  his  "  Bice  " ; 
Despard  wished  to  find  those  whom  his 
dead  father  had  denounced  to  him.  In 
the  intensity  of  his  purpose  he  was  care- 
le.ss  as  to  the  means  by  which  that  ven- 
geance should  be  accomplished.  He 
thought  not  whether  it  would  be  better 
to  trust  to  the  slow  action  of  the  law,  or 
to  take  the  task  into  his  own  hands. 
His  only  wish  was  to  be  confronted 
with  either  of  these  men,  or  both  of 
them. 

It  was  with  this  feeling  in  his  heart 
that  he  set  out  with  Langhetti,  and  the 
two  went  once  more  in  company  to  the 
village  of  Brandon,  where  they  arrived 
on  the  last  day  of  the  "  run  on  the 
bank." 

He  did  not  know  exactly  what  it  would 


be  best  to  do  first.  His  one  idea  was  to  go 
to  the  Hall,  and  confront  the  murderers 
in  their  own  place.  Langhetti,  however, 
urged  the  need  of  help  from  the  civil 
magistrate.  It  was  while  they  were 
deliberating  about  this  that  a  letter  was 
brought  in  addressed  to  the  I?£v.  Court- 
cnay  Despard, 

Despard  did  not  recognize  the  hand- 
writing. In  some  surprise  how  anyone 
should  know  that  he  was  here  he  opened 
the  letter,  and  his  surprise  was  still 
greater  as  he  read  the  following : 

"  Sir  :  There  are  two  men  here  whom 
you  seek — one  Potts,  the  other  Clark. 
You  can  see  them  both  at  any  time. 

"  The  young  lady  whom  you  and  Slg- 
nor  Langhetti  formerly  rescued  has 
escaped,  and  is  now  in  safety  at  Denton, 
a  village  not  more  than  twenty  miles 
away.  She  lives  in  the  last  cottage  on 
the  left-hand  side  of  the  road,  close  by 
the  sea.  There  is  an  American  elm  in 
frcnt." 

There  was  no  signature. 

Despard  handed  it  in  silence  to 
Langhetti,  who  read  it  eagerly.  Joy 
spread  over  his  face.  He  started  to  his 
feet. 


A    STRUGGLE 


»7S 


;  doesn't,  why 

ck,"  said  John, 
or  him,  "why 


^e  idea  was  to  go 
t  the  murderers 
ighetti,  however, 
I  from  the  civil 
;hile  they  were 
that  a  letter  was 
the  Jiev.  Coin/- 

»gr\ize  the  hand- 
rise  how  anyone 
s  here  he  opened 
rprise  was  still 
ollowing : 

men  here  whom 
he  other  Clark. 

at  any  time, 
om  you  and  Sig- 
rescued    has 
afety  at  Denton, 
an   twenty   miles 

last  cottage  on 
road,  close  hy 
American  elm  in 


re. 

in  silence  to 
it  eagerly.  Joy 
le  started  to  his 


"  I  must  go  at  once,"  said  he  excitedly. 
"Will  you?" 

"  No,"  replied  Despard.  "  You  had 
better  go.  I  must  stay  ;  my  purpose  is 
a  different  one." 

"  But  do  not  you  also  wish  to  secure 
the  safety  of  Bice?" 

"Of  course  ;  but  I  shall  not  be  needed. 
You  will  be  enough." 

Langhetti  tried  to  persuade  him,  but 
Despard  was  immovable.  For  himself 
he  was  too  impatient  to  wait.  He  deter- 
mined to  set  out  at  once.  He  could  not 
get  a  carriage,  but  he  managed  to  obtain 
a  horse,  and  with  this  he  set  out.  It 
was  about  the  time  when  the  bank  had 
closed. 

Just  before  his  departure  Despard  saw 
a  man  come  from  the  bank  and  enter 
the  inn.  He  knew  the  face,  ^or  he  had 
seen  it  when  here  before.  It  was  Clark. 
At  the  sight  of  this  face  all  his  fiercest 
instinct  awoke  within  h  m — a  deep  thirst 
for  vengeance  arose.  He  could  not  lose 
sight  of  this  man.  He  determined  to 
track  him,  and  thus  by  active  pursuit  to 
do  something  toward  the  accomplish- 
ment of  his  purpose. 

He  watched  him,  therefore,  as  he 
entered  the  inn,  and  caught  a  hasty 
glance  which  Clark  directed  at  himself 
and  Langhetti.  He  did  not  understand 
the  meaning  of  the  scowl  that  passed 
over  the  ruffian's  face,  nor  did  Clark 
understand  the  full  meaning  of  that 
gloomy  frown  which  lowered  over  Des- 
pard's  brow  as  his  eyes  blazed  wrathfuUy 
and  menacingly  upon  him. 

Clark  came  out  and  went  to  the  bank. 
On  quitting  the  bank  Despard  saw  him 
looking  back  at  Langhetti,  who  was  just 
leaving.  He  then  watched  him  till  he 
went  up  to  the  Hall. 

In  about  half  an  hour  Clark  came  back 
«n  horseback  followed  by  a  dog.    He 


t.^lkcd  for  a  while  with  the  landlord,  and 
then  went  off  at  a  slow  trot. 

On  questioning  the  landlord  Despard 
found  that  Clark  had  asked  him  abuut 
the  direction  which  Langhetti  had  taken. 
The  idea  at  once  flashed  upon  him  that 
possibly  Clark  wished  to  pursue  Lan- 
ghetti, in  order  to  fit.  J  out  aboui  Beatrice. 
He  determined  on  pursuit,  lioth  for 
Langhetii's  sake  and  his  own. 

He  followed,  therefore,  i  ')t  far  behind 
Clark,  riding  at  first '  pidly  till  he  caught 
sight  of  him  at  the  summit  of  a  hill  in 
front,  and  then  keeping  at  about  the 
same  distance  behind  him.  He  had  not 
detei mined  in  his  mind  what  it  was  best 
to  do,  but  held  himself  prepared  for  any 
course  of  action. 

After  riding  about  an  hour  he  put  spurs 
to  his  horse,  and  went  t  .  at  a  more  rapid 
pace.  Yet  he  did  not  overtake  Clark,  and 
therefore  conjectured  that  Clark  himself 
must  have  gone  on  mort  rapidly.  He 
now  put  his  own  horse  to  its  fullest 
speed,  with  the  intention  of  coming  up 
with  his  enemy  as  soon  as  possible. 

He  rode  on  at  a  tremendous  pace  for 
another  half  hour.  At  last  the  road  took 
a  sudden  turn ;  and,  whirling  around 
here  at  the  utmost  speed,  he  burst  "ipon 
a  scene  which  was  as  startling  as  it 
was  unexpected,  and  which  roused  to 
madness  all  the  fervid  passion  of  his 
nature. 

The  road  here  descended,  and  in  its 
descent  wound  round  a  hill  and  led  into 
a  gentle  hollow,  on  each  side  of  which 
hills  arose  which  were  covered  with 
trees. 

Within  this  glen  was  disclosed  a  fright- 
ful spectacle.  A  man  lay  on  the  ground, 
torn  from  his  horse  by  a  huge  blood- 
hound, which  even  then  was  rending  him 
with  its  huge  fangs  !  The  dismounted 
rider's  foot  was  entangled  in  the  stirrups. 


IMAGE  EVALUATICN 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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I.I 


1.25 


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2.2 


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c   1^   ilM 


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1.6 


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Wj^^^ 


Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WeST  MAIN  STREET 

WEftSTER.N.Y.  US80 

(756)871-4503 


Sf 


V.4r> 


% 
6 


V^o 


876 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


u, 

s 


CO 

ex: 


and  the  horse  was  plunging  and  dragging 
him  along,  while  the  dog  was  pulling  him 
back.  The  man  himself  uttered  not  a 
cry,  but  tried  to  fight  off  the  dog  with  his 
hands  as  best  he  could. 

In  the  horror  of  the  moment  Despard 
saw  that  it  was  Langhetti.  For  an  instant 
his  brain  reeled.  The  next  moment  he 
had  reached  the  spot.  Another  horseman 
was  standing  close  by,  without  pretending 
even  to  interfere.  Despard  did  not  see 
him  ;  he  saw  nothing  but  Langhetti.  He 
flung  himself  from  his  horse,  and  drew  a 
revolver  from  his  pocket.  A  loud  report 
rang  through  the  air,  and  in  an  instant 
the  huge  bloodhound  gave  a  leap  up- 
ward, with  a  piercing  yell,  and  fell  dead 
in  the  road. 

Despard  flung  himself  on  his  knees 
beside  Langhetti.  He  saw  his  hands 
torn  and  bleeding,  and  blood  covering 
his  face  and  breast.  A  low  groan  was 
all  that  escapod  from  the  sufferer. 

"  Leave  me,"  he  gasped.    "  Save  Bice." 

In  his  grief  for  Langhetti,  thus  lying 
before  him  in  such  agony,  Despard  forgot 
all  else.  He  seized  his  handkerchief  and 
tried  to  stanch  the  blood. 

"  Leave  me  ! "  gasped  Langhetti  again. 
"  Bice  will  be  lost."  His  head,  which 
Despard  had  supported  for  a  moment, 
sank  back,  and  life  seemed  to  leave 
him. 

Despard  started  up.  Now  for  the  first 
time  he  recollected  the  stranger  ;  and  in 
an  instant  understood  who  he  was,  and 
why  this  had  been  done.  Suddenly,  as 
he  started  up,  he  felt  his  pistol  snatched 
from  his  hand  by  a  strong  grasp.  He 
turned. 

It  was  the  horseman — it  was  Clark — 
who  had  stealthily  dismounted,  and,  in 
his  desperate  purpose,  had  tried  to  make 
sure  of  Despard. 

But  Despard,  quick  as  thought,  leaped 


upon  him  and  caught  his  hand.  In  the 
struggle  the  pistol  fell  to  the  ground. 
Despard  caught  Clark  in  his  arms,  and 
then  the  contest  began. 

Clark  was  of  medium  size,  thick-set, 
muscular,  robust,  and  desperate.  Des- 
pard was  tall,  but  his  frame  was  well- 
knit,  his  muscles  and  sinews  were  like 
iron,  and  he  was  inspired  by  a  higher 
spirit  and  a  deeper  passion. 

In  the  first  shock  of  that  fierce  em- 
brace not  a  word  was  spoken.  For 
some  time  the  struggle  was  maintained 
without  result.  Clark  had  caught  Des- 
pard at  a  disadvantage,  and  this  for  a 
time  prevented  the  latter  from  putting 
forth  his  strength  effectually. 

At  last  he  wound  one  arm  around 
Clark's  neck  in  a  strangling  grasp,  and 
forced  his  other  arm  under  that  of  Clark. 
Then  with  one  tremendous,  one  resist- 
less impulse,  he  put  forth  all  his  strength. 
His  antagonist  gave  way  before  it.  He 
reeled. 

Despard  disengaged  one  arm  and  dealt 
him  a  tremendous  blow  on  the  temple. 
At  the  same  instant  he  twined  his 
legs  about  those  of  the  other.  At  the 
stroke  Clark,  who  had  already  staggered, 
gave  way  utterly  and  fell  heavily  back- 
ward, with  Despard  upon  him. 

The  next  instant  Despard  had  seized 
his  throat  and  h  ^Id  him  down  so  that  he 
could  not  move. 

The  wretch  gasped  and  groaned.  He 
struggled  to  escape  from  that  iron  hold  in 
vain.  The  hand  which  had  seized  him 
was  not  to  be  shaken  off.  Despard  had 
fixed  his  grasp  there,  and  there  in  the 
throat  of  the  fainting,  suffocating  wretch 
he  held  it. 

The  struggles  grew  fainter,  the  arms 
relaxed,  the  face  blackened,  the  limbs 
stiffened.    At  last  all  efforts  ceased. 

Despard  then  arose,  and,  turning  Clark 


FACE    TO    FACE 


277 


his  hand.    In  the 
11  to  the  ground. 

in  his  arms,  and 
1. 
im  size,  thick-set, 

desperate.  Des- 
s  frame  was  well- 

sinews  were  like 
pired  by  a  higher 
ission. 

3f  that  fierce  em- 
/as  spoken.  For 
rle  was  maintained 
:  had  caught  Des- 
ige,  and  this  for  a 
itter  from  putting 
ectually. 

one  arm  around 
angling  grasp,  and 
mder  that  of  Clark. 
indous,  one  resist- 
)rth  all  his  strength. 
way  before  it.    He 

one  arm  and  dealt 
low  on  the  temple. 
it  he  twined  his 
the  other.  At  the 
already  staggered, 
fell  heavily  back- 
upon  him. 
lespard  had  seized 
im  down  so  that  he 

and  groaned.  Me 
lom  that  iron  hold  in 
|ch  had  seized  him 

off.  Despard  had 
;,  and  there  in  the 

suffocating  wretch 

fainter,  the  arms 
lickened,  the  limbs 

efforts  ceased. 
,  and,  turning  Clark 


over  on  his  face,  took  the  bridle  from 
one  of  the  horses,  bound  his  hands  be- 
hind him,  and  fastened  his  feet  securely. 
In  the  fierce  struggle  Clark's  coat 
and  waistcoat  had  been  torn  away, 
and  slipped  down  to  some  extent. 
His  shirt  collar  had  burst  and  slipped 
with  them.  As  Despard  turned  him 
over  and  proceeded  to  tie  him,  some- 
thing struck  his  eye.  It  was  a  bright 
red  scar. 

He  pulled  down  the  shirt.  A  mark 
appeared,  the  full  meaning  of  which  he 
knew  not    but    could   well  conjecture. 


There  were  three  brands — fiery  red — and 
these  were  the  marks : 


+ 


CHAPTER  LII 


FACE  TO   FACE 


On  the  same  evening  Potts,  left  the 
bank  at  about  five  o'clock,  and  went  up 
to  the  Hall  with  John.  He  was  morose, 
gloomy,  and  abstracted.  The  great  ques- 
tion now  before  him  was  how  to  deal 
with  Smithers  &  Co.  Should  he  write  to 
them,  or  go  and  see  them,  or  what?  How 
could  he  satisfy  their  claims,  which  he 
knew  would  now  be  presented  ?  Involved 
in  thoughts  like  these  he  entered  the  Hall, 
and,  followed  by  John,  went  to  the  dining 
room,  where  father  and  son  sat  down 
to  refresh  themselves  over  a  bottle  of 
brandy. 

They  had  not  been  seated  half  an  hour 
before  the  noise  of  carriage-wheels  was 
heard ;  and  on  looking  out  they  saw  a 
dog-cart  drawn  by  two  magnificent  horses 
which  drove  swiftly  up  to  the  portico.  A 
gentleman  dismounted,  and,  throwing 
the  reins  to  his  servant,  came  up  the 
steps. 


The  stranger  was  of  medium  size,  with 
an  aristocratic  air,  remarkably  regular 
features,  of  pure  Grecian  outline,  and 
deep,  black,  lustrous  eyes.  His  brow 
was  dark  and  stern,  and  clouded  over  by 
a  gloomy  frown. 

"Who  the  devil  is  he? "cried  Potts. 

"  D n  that  porter !    I  told  him  to  let 

no  one  in  to-day." 

"  I  believe  the  porter's  playing  fast  and 
loose  with  us.  But,  by  Jove !  do  you  see 
that  fellow's  eyes?  Do  you  know  who 
else  has  such  eyes  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Old  Smithers." 

"  Smithers ! " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  this  is  young  Smithers  ?  " 

"Yes;  or  else  the  devil,"  said  John 
harshly.  "  I  begin  to  have  an  idea,"  he 
continued.  "  I've  been  thinking  about 
for  some  time." 


378 


CORD    AND    CREESE 


"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Old  Smithers  had  these  eyes.  That 
last  chap,  that  drew  the  forty  thousand 
out  of  you,  kept  his  eyes  covered.  Here 
comes  this  fellow  with  the  same  eyes. 
I  begin  to  trace  a  connection  between 
them." 

"  Pooh !  Old  Smithers  is  old  enough  to 
be  this  man's  grandfather." 

"  Did  you  ever  happen  to  notice  that 
old  Smithers  hadn't  a  wrinkle  in  his 
face?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing — only  his  hair  mightn't 
have  been  natural ;  that's  all." 

Potts  and  John  exchanged  glances,  and 
nothing  was  said  for  some  time. 

"  Perhaps  this  Smithers  &  Co.  have 
been  at  the  bottom  of  all  this,"  continued 
John.  "They  are  the  only  ones  who 
could  have  been  strong  enough. " 

"But  why  should  they?" 

John  shook  his  head. 

"  Despard  or  Langhetti  may  have  got 

them  to  do  it.    Perhaps  that  d d  girl 

did  it.  Smithers  &  Co.  will  make  money 
enough  out  of  the  speculation  to  pay 
them.  As  for  me  and  you,  I  begin  to 
have  a  general  but  very  accurate  idea  of 
ruin.  You  are  getting  squeezed  pretty 
close  up  to  the  wall,  dad,  and  they  won't 
give  you  time  to  breathe." 

Before  this  conversation  had  ended  the 
stranger  had  entered,  and  had  gone  up  to 
the  drawing  room.  The  servant  cam*? 
down  to  announce  him. 

"  What  name  ?  "  asked  Potts. 

*•  He  didn't  give  any." 

Potts  looked  perplexed. 

"  Come  now,"  said  John.  "  This  fellow 
has  overreached  himself  at  last.  He's 
come  here ;  perhaps  it  won't  be  so  easy 
for  him  to  get  out.  I'll  have  all  the  ser- 
vants ready.  Do  you  keep  up  your 
spirits.    Don't   get    frightened,  but    be 


plucky.  Bluff  him,  and  when  the  time 
comes  ring  the  bell,  and  I'll  march  in 
with  all  the  servants." 

Potts  looked  for  a  moment  at  his  son 
with  a  glance  of  deep  admiration. 

"  Johnnie,  you've  got  more  sense  in 
your  little  finger  than  I  have  in  my  whole 
body.  Yes ;  we've  got  this  fellow,  who- 
ever he  is  ;  and  if  he  turns  out  to  be  what 
I  suspect,  then  we'll  spring  the  trap  on 
him,  and  he'll  learn  what  it  is  to  play 
with  edged   tools." 

With  these  words  Potts  departed,  and, 
ascending  the  stairs,  entered  the  drawing 
room. 

The  stranger  was  standing  looking  out 
of  one  of  the  windows.  His  attitude 
brought  back  to  Potts'  recollection  the 
scene  which  had  once  occurred  there, 
when  old  Smithers  was  holding  Bea- 
trice in  his  arms.  The  recollection  of 
this  threw  a  flood  of  light  on  Potts' 
mind.  He  recalled  it  with  a  savage 
exultation.  Perhaps  they  were  the 
same,  as  John  said — perhaps ;  no,  most 
assuredly  they  must  be  the  same. 

"  I've  got  him  now,  anyway,"  mur- 
mured Potts  to  himself,  "  whoever  he 
is." 

The  stranger  turned  and  looked  at 
Potts  for  a  few  moments.  He  neither 
bowed  nor  uttered  any  salutation  what- 
ever. In  his  look  there  was  a  certain 
terrific  menace,  an  indefinable  glance  of 
conscious  power,  combined  with  impla- 
cable hate.  The  frown  which  usually 
rested  on  his  brow  darkened  and  deep- 
ened till  the  gloomy  shadows  tliat 
covered  them  seemed  like  thunder- 
clouds. 

Before  that  awful  look  Potts  felt  him- 
self cowering  involuntarily ;  and  he  be- 
gan to  feel  less  confidence  in  his  own 
power,  and  less  sure  that  the  stranger 
had  flung  himself  into  a  trap.     How- 


FACE    TO    FACE 


279 


ind  when  the  time 
and  I'll   march  in 

t 

moment  at  his  son 
»  admiration, 
got  more  sense  in 
1  I  have  in  my  whole 
got  this  fellow,  who- 
turnsouttobewhat 

I  spring  the  trap  on 
n  what  it  is  to  play 

Potts  departed,  and, 
,  entered  the  drawing 

;  standing  looking  out 
ndows.    His  attitude 
•otts'  recollection   the 
once  occurred  there, 
s  was  holding    Bea- 
The  recollection   of 
d  of  light    on   Potts' 
d    it    with    a    savage 
aps    they     were    tl\e 
d— perhaps  ;  no,  most 
ist  be  the  same, 
now,  anyway,"  mur- 
limself,  "whoever  he 

urned  and    looked  at 
moments.    He  neither 
1  any  salutation  what- 
:  there  was  a  certain 
,  indefinable  glance  of 
combined  with  impla- 
frown  which    usually 
w  darkened  and  deep- 
loomy    shadows    that 
'eemed     like    thundei- 

[ul  look  Potts  felt  him- 
[oluntarily  ;  and  he  be- 
Iconfidence  in  his  own 
Isure  that  the  stranger 
llf  into  a  trap.     How- 


ever, the  silence  was  embarrassing;  so 
at  last,  with  an  effort,  he  said  : 

"  Well ;  is  there  anything  you  want  of 
me  ?    I'm  in  a  hurry." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  stranger ;  "  I  reached 
tlie  village  to-day  to  call  at  the  bank,  but 
found  it  closed." 

"  Oh  !  I  suppose  you've  got  a  draft 
on  me,  too." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  stranger  mysteriously. 
"  I  suppose  I  may  call  it  a  draft." 

'  There's  no  use  in  troubling  your  head 
p'jout  it,  then,"  returned  Potts ;  "  I  won't 
pay." 

"  You  won't  ?  " 

"  Not  a  penny." 

A  sharp,  sudden  smile  of  contempt 
flashed  over  the  stranger's  face. 

"  Perhaps  if  you  knew  what  the  draft 
is,  you  would  feel  differently." 

"  I  don't  care  what  it  is." 

"That  depends  upon  the  drawer." 

"  I  don't  care  who  the  drawer  is.  I 
won't  pay  it.  I  don't  care  even  if  it's 
Sniithers  &  Co.  I'll  settle  all  when  I'm 
ready.  I'm  not  going  to  be  bullied  any 
longer.  I've  borne  enough.  You  needn't 
look  so  very  grand,"  he  continued  pet- 
tishly ;  "  I  see  through  you,  and  you 
can't  keep  up  this  sort  of  thing  much 
longer." 

"You  appear  to  hint  that  you  know 
who  I  am  }  " 

"  Something  of  that  sort,"  said  Potts 
rudely.  "  And  let  me  tell  you  I  don't  care 
who  you  are." 

"  That  depends,"  rejoined  the  other 
calmly,  "  very  much  on  circumstances." 

"So  you  see,"  continued  Potts,  "you 
won't  get  anything  out  of  me — not  this 
time,"  he  added. 

"My  draft,"  said  the  stranger,  "is 
different  from  those  which  were  pre- 
sented at  the  bank  counter." 

He  spoke  in  a  tone  of  deep  solemnity, 

10 


with  a  tone  which  seemed  like  the  tread 
of  some  inevitable  Fate  advancing  upon 
its  victim.  Potts  felt  an  indefinable  fear 
stealing  over  him  in  spite  of  himself. 
He  said  not  a  word. 

"  My  draft,"  continued  the  stranger,  in 
a  tone  which  was  still  more  aggressive 
in  its  dominant  and  self-assertive  power 
— "  my  draft  was  drawn  twenty  years 
ago. 

Potts  looked  wonderingly  and  half 
fearfully  at  him. 

"  My  draft,"  said  the  other,  "  was 
drawn  by  Colonel  Lionel  Despard." 

A  chill  went  to  the  heart  of  Potts. 
With  a  violen'  effort  he  shook  off  his 
fear. 

"  Pooh  !  "  said  he,  "  you're  at  that  old 
story,  are  you  ?  That  nonsense  won't 
do  here." 

"  It  was  dated  at  sea,"  continued  the 
stranger,  in  tones  which  still  deepened 
in  awful  emphasis — "at  sea,  when  tf^e 
writer  was  all  alone." 

"It's  a  lie!"  cried  Potts,  while  his 
face  grew  white. 

"  At  sea,"  continued  the  other,  rinf.ing 
the  changes  on  this  one  word,  "  at  sea — 
on  board  that  ship  to  which  you  had 
brought  him — the  Vishnu  !  " 

Potts  was  like  a  man  fascinated  by 
some  horrid  spectacle.  He  looked 
fixedly  at  his  interlocutor.  His  jaw 
fell. 

"There  he  died,"  said  the  stranger. 
"  Who  caused  his  death  ?  Will  you 
answer  ?  " 

With  a  tremendous  effort  Potts  again 
recovered  command  of  himself. 

"  You've — you've  been  reading  up  old 
papers,"  replied  he  in  a  stammering 
voice.  "  You've  got  a  lot  of  stuff  in 
your  head  which  you  think  will  frighten 
me.     You've  come  to  the  wrong  shop." 

But  in  spite  of  these  words  the  pale 


38o 


CORD    AND    CREESE 


^ 


'■'■iWi 


■W- 


face  and  nervous  manner  of  Potts 
showed    how  deep    was    his    agitation. 

"  I  myself  was  on  board  the  VtsAnu," 
said  the  other. 

"You?" 

•*  Yes,  I." 

"  You !  Then  you  must  have  been 
precious  small.  The  Vishnu  went  down 
twenty  years  ago." 

"  I  was  on  board  of  the  Vishnu,  and 
I  saw  Colonel  Despard." 

The  memory  of  some  awful  scene 
seemed  to  inspire  the  tones  of  the  speaker 
— they  thrilled  through  the  coarse,  brutal 
nature  of  the  listener. 

"  I  saw  Colonel  Despard,"  continued 
the  stranger. 

"  You  lie  ! "  cried  Potts,  roused  by  ter- 
ror and  horror  to  a  fierce  pitch  of  excite- 
ment. 

"  I  saw  Colonel  Despard,"  repeated  the 
stranger,  for  the  third  time,  "  on  board 
the  Vishnu  in  the  Indian  Sea,  I  learned 
from  him  his  story " 

He  paused. 

"  Then,"  cried  Potts  quickly,  to  whom 
there  suddenly  came  an  idea  which 
brought  courage  with  it ;  "  then,  if  you 
saw  him,  what  concern  is  it  of  mine? 
He  was  alive,  then,  and  the  Despard 
murder  never  took  place." 

"  It  did  take  place,"  said  the  other. 

"  You're  talking  nonsense.  How  could 
it  if  you  saw  him  ?  He  must  have  been 
alive." 

"  He  was  dead!  "  replied  the  stranger, 
whose  .'  ;2S  had  never  withdrawn  them- 
selves from  those  of  Potts,  and  now 
seemed  like  two  fiery  orbs  blazing  wrath- 
fully  upon  him.  The  tones  penetrated  to 
the  very  soul  of  the  listener.  He  shud- 
dered in  spite  of  himself.  Like  most 
vulgar  natures,  his  was  accessible  to 
superstitious  horror.  He  heard  and 
trembled. 


"  He  was  dead,"  repeated  the  stranger, 
"  and  yet  all  that  I  told  you  is  true.  I 
learned  from  him  his  story." 

"Dead  men  tell  no  tales,"  mutt  ad 
Potts  in  a  scarce  articulate  voice. 

"  So  you  thought  when  you  locked  him 
in,  and  set  fire  to  the  ship,  and  scuttled 
her ;  but  you  see  you  were  mistaken,  for 
here  at  least  was  a  dead  man  who  did  tell 
tales,  and  I  was  the  listener." 

And  the  mystic  solemnity  of  the  man's 
face  seemed  to  mark  him  as  one  who 
might  indeed  have  held  commune  with 
the  dead. 

"  He  told  me,"  continued  the  stranger, 
"  where  he  found  you,  and  how." 

Awful  expectation  was  manifest  on  the 
face  of  Potts. 

"  He  told  me  of  the  mark  on  your  arm. 
Draw  up  your  sleeve,  Briggs,  Potts,  or 
whatever  other  name  you  choose,  and 
show  the  indelible  characters  which 
represent    the    name    of    Bowhani." 

Potts  started  back.  His  lips  grew 
ashen.     His  teeth  chattered. 

"  He  gave  me  this,"  cried  the  stranger 
in  a  louder  voice ;  "  and  this  is  the  draft 
which  you  will  not  reject." 

He  strode  forward  three  or  four  paces 
and  flung  something  toward  Potts. 

It  was  a  cord,  at  the  end  of  which  was 
a  metallic  ball.  The  ball  struck  the  table 
as  it  fell,  and  rolled  to  the  floor,  but  the 
stranger  held  the  other  end  in  his  hand. 

"Thug!"  cried  he;  "do  you  know 
what  that  is?" 

Had  the  stranger  been  Olympian  Jove, 
and  had  he  flung  forth  from  his  right  hand 
a  thunderbolt,  it  could  not  have  produced 
a  more  appalling  effect  than  that  which 
was  wrought  upon  Potts  by  the  sight  of 
this  cord.  He  started  back  in  horror, 
uttering  a  cry  half-way  between  a  scream 
and  a  groan.  Big  drops  of  perspiration 
started  from  his  brow.    He  trembled  and 


FACE    TO    FACE 


281 


^peated  the  stranger, 
told  you  is  true.    1 
story." 

no  tales,"  mutt  --ed 
articulate  voice, 
vhen  you  locked  him 
le  ship,  and  scuttled 
1  were  mistaken,  for 
lead  man  who  did  tell 
listener." 

•lemnity  of  the  man's 
rk  him  as  one  who 
held  commune  with 

ntinuedthe  stranger, 

lu,  and  how." 

1  was  manifest  on  the 

he  mark  on  your  arm. 

:ve,  Briggs,  Potts,  or 

,me  you  choose,  and 

le   characters    which 

le   of   BowhanH' 

ack.    His   lips   grew 

ihattered. 

s,"  cried  the  stranger 

'  and  this  is  the  draft 

reject." 

d  three  or  four  paces 

g  toward  Potts. 

the  end  of  which  was 
le  ball  struck  the  table 

to  the  floor,  but  the 

ler  end  in  his  hand. 

he;  "do  you  know 

been  Olympian  Jove, 
th  from  his  right  hand 
uld  not  have  produced 
iffect  than  that  which 

Potts  by  the  sight  of 
jted  back  in  horror, 
way  between  a  scream 

drops  of  perspiration 
■)w.    He  trembled  and 


shuddered  from  head  to  foot.    His  jaw 
fell.    He  stood  speechless. 

"  That  is  my  draft,"  said  the  stranger. 

•'  What  do  you  want  ?  "  gasped  Potts. 

"The  title-deeds  of  the  Brandon 
estates ! " 

"  The  Brandon  estates  ! "  said  Potts  in 
a  faltering  voice. 

"Yes,  the  Brandon  estates;  nothing 
less." 

"  And  will  you  then  keep  silent?" 

"  I  will  give  you  the  corci." 

"  Will  you  keep  silent  ? " 

"I  am  your  master,"  said  the  other 
haughtily,  as  his  burning  eyes  fixed  them- 
selves with  a  consuming  gaze  upon  the 
abject  vretch  before  him ;  "  I  am  your 
master.  I  make  no  promises.  I  spare 
you  or  destroy  you  as  I  choose." 

These  words  reduced  Potts  to  despair. 
In  the  depths  of  that  despair  he  found 
hope.  He  started  up,  defiant.  With  an 
oath  he  sprang  to  the  bell-rope  and 
pulled  again  ai  d  again,  till  the  peals 
reverberated  through  the  house. 

The  stranger  stood  with  a  scornful 
smile  on  his  face.  Potts  turned  to  him 
savagely : 

"  I'll  teach  you,"  he  cried,  "  that  you've 
come  to  the  wrong  shop.  I'm  not  a 
child.  Who  you  are  I  don't  know  and 
don't  care.  You  are  the  cause  of  my 
ruin,  and  you'll  repent  of  it." 

The  stranger  said  nothing,  but  stood 
witli  the  same  fixed  and  scornful  smile. 
A  noise  was  heard  outside,  the  tramp  of  a 
crowd  of  men.  They  ascended  the  stairs. 
At  last  John  appeared  at  the  door  of  the 
room,  followed  by  thirty  servants.  Prom- 
inent among  these  was  Asgeelo.  Near 
him  was  Vijal.  Potts  gave  a  triumphant 
smile.  The  servants  ranged  themselves 
around  the  room. 

"  Now,"  cried  Potts,  "  you're  in  for  it. 
You're  in  a  trap,  I   think.    You'll  find 


that  I'm  not  a  born  idiot.  Give  up  that 
cord." 

The  stranger  said  nothing,  but  wound 
up  the  cord  coolly,  placed  it  in  his  pocket, 
and  still  k-egarded  Potts  with  a  scornful 
smile. 

"  Here !  "  cried  Potts,  addressing  the 
servants.  "  Catch  that  man,  and  tie  his 
hands  and  feet." 

The  servants  had  taken  their  station 
around  the  room  at  John's  order.  As 
Potts  spoke  they  stood  there  looking  at 
the  stranger,  but  not  one  of  them  moved. 
Vijal  only  started  forward.  The  stranger 
turned  toward  him  and  looked  in  his 
face. 

Vijal  glanced  around  in  surprise,  wait- 
ing for  the  other  s'^rvants. 

"  You  devils !  "  cried  Potts,  "  do  you 
hear  what  I  say  ?    Seize  that  man  I  " 

None  of  the  servants  moved. 

"It's  my  belief,"  said  John,  "that 
they're  all  ratting." 

•'  Vijal ! "  cried  Potts  savagely,  "  tackle 
him!" 

Vijal  rushed  forward.  At  that  instant 
Asgeelo  bounded  forward  also  with  one 
tremendous  leap,  and  seizing  Vijal  by 
the  throat  hurled  him  to  the  floor. 

The  stranger  waved  his  hand. 

"  Let  him  go    "  said  he. 

Asgeelo  obeyed 

"  What  the  devil's  the  meaning  of 
this?"  cried  John,  looking  around  in 
dismay.  Potts  also  looked  around. 
There  stood  the  servants — motionless, 
impassive. 

"  For  the  last  time,"  roared  Potts,  with 
a  perfect  volley  of  oaths, "  seize  that  man, 
or  you'll  be  sorry  for  it !  " 

The  servants  s'ood  motionless.  The 
stranger  remained  in  the  same  attitude 
with  the  same  sneering  smile. 

"  You  see,"  said  he  at  last,  "  that  you 
don't  know  me,  after  all.    You  are  in  my 


aSa 


CORD   AND   CREESE 


power,  Briggs~you  can't  get  away,  nor 
can  your  son." 

Potts  rushed,  with  an  oath,  to  the  door. 
Half  a  dozen  servants  were  standing 
there.  As  he  came  furiously  toward 
them  they  held  out  their  clenched  fists. 
He  rushed  upon  them.  They  beat  him 
back.    He  fell,  foaming  at  the  lips. 

John  stood  cool  and  unmoved,  looking 
around  the  room,  and  learning  from  the 
face  of  each  servant  that  they  were  all 
beyond  his  authority.  He  folded  his  arms, 
and  said  nothing. 

"You  appear  to  have  been  mistaken 
in  your  man,"  said  the  stranger  coolly. 
"  These  are  not  your  servants ;  they're 
mine.    Shall  I  tell  them  to  seize  you  ?  " 

Potts  glared  at  him  with  bloodshot 
eyes,  but  said  nothing. 

"Shall  I  tell  them  to  pull  up  your 
sleeve  and  display  the  mark  of  Bowhani, 
sir  ?  Shall  I  tell  who  and  what  you  are  ? 
Shall  I  begin  from  your  birth  and  give 
them  a  full  and  complete  history  of  your 
life  ?  " 

Potts  looked  around  like  a  wild  beast 
in  the  arena,  seeking  for  some  opening 
for  escape,  but  finding  nothing  except 
hostile  faces. 

"  Do  what  you  like ! "  he  cried  des- 
perately, with  an  oath,  and  sank  down 
into  stolid  despair. 

"  No  ;  you  don't  mean  that,"  said  the 
other.  "  For  I  have  some  London  po- 
licemen at  the  inn,  and  I  might  like  best 
to  hand  you  over  to  them  on  charges 
which  you  can  easily  imagine.  You  don't 
wish  me  to  do  so,  I  think.  You'd  prefer 
being  at  large  to  being  chained  up  in  a 
cell,  or  sent  to  Botany  Bay,  I  suppose  ? 
Still,  if  you  prefer  it,  I  will  at  once  ar- 
range an  interview  between  yourself  and 
these  gentlemen." 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  anxiously 
^sked  Potts,  who  now  thought  that  he 


might  come  to  terms,  and  perhaps 
gain  his  escape  from  the  clutches  of  his 
enemy. 

"  Jhe  title-deeds  of  the  Brandon  es- 
tate," said  the  stranger. 

"  Never ! " 

"  Then  off  you  go.  They  must  be 
mine,  at  any  rate.  Nothing  can  pr^-vent 
that.  Either  give  them  now  and  be- 
gone, or  delay,  and  you  go  at  once  to 
jail." 

"  I  won't  give  them,"  said  Potts  des- 
perately. 

"Cato!"  said  the  stranger,  "go  and 
fetch  the  policemen." 

"  Stop !"  cried  John. 

At  a  sign  Asgeelo,  who  had  already 
i  .ken  two  steps  toward  the  door,  paused. 

"  Here,  dad,"  said  John,  "  you've  got 
to  do  it.  You  might  as  well  hand  over 
the  papers.  You  don't  want  to  get  into 
quod,  I  think." 

Potts  turned  his  pale  face  to  his  son. 

"  Do  it ! "  exclaimed  John. 

"  Well,"  he  said  with  a  sigh,  "  since 
I've  got  to,  I've  got  to,  I  suppose.  You 
know  best,  Johnnie.  I  always  said  you 
had  a  long  head." 

"  I  must  go  and  get  them,"  he  con- 
tinued. 

"  I'll  go  with  you  ;  or  no— Cato  shall 
go  with  you,  and  I'll  wait  here." 

The  Hindoo  went  with  Potts,  holding 
his  collar  in  his  powerful  grasp,  and 
taking  care  to  let  Potts  see  the  hilt  of  a 
knife  which  he  carried  up  his  sleeve,  in 
the  other  hand. 

After  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  they 
returned,  and  Potts  handed  over  to  the 
stranger  some  papers.  He  looked  at 
them  carefully,  and  put  them  in  his 
pocket.  He  then  gave  Potts  the  cord. 
Potts  took  it  in  an  abstracted  way,  and 
said  nothing. 

"  You  must  leave  this  H^U  to-night, " 


li-i 


I  3 


FACE   TO   FACE 


283 


go.     They  must  be 

Nothing  can  pr»,vent 

them  now   and    be- 

you  go  at  once  to 

em,"  said  Potts  des- 

le  stranger,  "go  and 

hn. 

;lo,  who  had  already 
^ard  the  door,  paused, 
id  John,  "  you've  got 
ht  as  well  hand  over 
lon't  want  to  get  into 


get  them,"  he  con- 

I ;   or  no— Cato  shall 
11  wait  here." 
It  with  Potts,  holding 

powerful  grasp,  and 
Potts  see  the  hilt  of  a 
rried  up  his  sleeve,  in 


aid  the  stranger  sternly — "you  and 
your  son.     I  remain  here." 

"  Leave  the  Hall  ?  "  gasped  Potts. 

"  Yes." 

For  a  moment  he  stood  overwhelmed. 
He  looked  at  John.  John  nodded  his 
head   slowly. 

"  You've  got  to  do  it,  dad,"  said  he. 

Potts  turned  savagely  at  the  stranger. 
He  shook  his  clenched  fist  at  him. 

"  D n  you  ! "  he  cried.    "  Are  you 

satisfied  yet  ?  I  know  you.  I'll  pay  you 
up.  What  complaint  have  you  against 
me,  I'd  like  to  know?  I  never  harmed 
you." 

"  You  don't  know  me,  or  you  wouldn't 
say  ihat." 

"  I  do.    You're  Smilhers  &  Co." 

"  True  ;  and  I'm  several  other  people. 
I've  had  the  pleasure  of  an  extended 
intercourse  with  you.  For  I'm  not  only 
Smithers  &  Co.,  but  I'm  also  Beamish  & 
Hendricks,  American  merchants.  I'm 
also  Bigelow,  Higginson  &  Co.,  solicitors 
to  Smithers  &  Co.  Besides,  I'm  your 
London  broker,  who  attended  to  your 
speculations  in  stocks.  Perhaps  you 
think  that  you  don't  know  me  after  all." 

As  he  said  this  Potts  and  John  ex- 
changed glances  of  wonder. 

"  Tricked  !  "  cried  Potts—"  deceived ! 
humbugged !  and  ruined !  Who  are 
you  ?  What  have  you  against  me  ? 
Who  are  you?    Who?" 

And  he  gazed  with  intense  curiosity 
upon  the  calm  face  of  the  stranger,  who. 


in  his  turn,  looked  upon  him  with  the  air 
of  one  who  was  surveying  from  a  superior 
height  some  feeble  creature  fai  beneath 
him. 

"  Who  am  I  ?  "  he  repeated.  "  Who  ? 
I  am  the  one  to  whom  all  this  belongs. 
I  am  one  whom  you  have  injured  so 
deeply  that  what  I  have  done  to  you  is 
nothing  in  comparison." 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  cried  Potts,  with 
feverish  impatience.  "  It's  a  lie.  I  never 
injured  you.  I  never  saw  you  before  till 
you  came  yourself  to  trouble  me.  Those 
whom  I  have  injured  are  all  dead,  except 
that  parson,  the  son  of — of  the  officer." 

"  There  are  others." 

Potts  said  nothing,  but  looked  as  if 
some  fearful  discovery  were  dawning 
upon  him. 

"  You  know  me  now  ? "  cried  the 
stranger.    "I  see  it  in  your  face." 

"  You're  not  him  !  "  exclaimed  Potts 
in  a  piercing  voice. 

••  I  am  Louis  Brandon  ! " 

"  I  knew  it !  I  knew  it !  "  cried  John, 
in  a  voice  that  was  almost  a  shriek. 

*'  Cigole  played  false.  I'll  make  him 
pay  for  this,"  gasped  Potts. 

"  Cigole  did  not  play  false.  He  killed 
me  as  well  as  he  could.  But  away,  both 
of  you.  I  cannot  breathe  while  you  are 
here.  I  will  allow  you  an  hour  to  be 
gone." 

At  the  end  of  the  hour,  Brandon  of 
Brandon  Hall  was  at  last  master  in  the 
home  of  his  ancestors. 


this  H^ll  to-night, " 


CHAPTER  LIII 


1 


THE  COTTAGE 


o 

o 


When  Despard  h^d  bound  Clark  he 
returned  to  look  after  Langhetti.  He  lay 
feeble  and  motionless  upon  the  ground. 
Despard  carefully  examined  his  wounds. 
His  injuries  were  very  severe.  His  arms 
were  lacerated,  and  his  shoulder  torn  ; 
blood  also  was  issuing  from  a  wound  on 
the  side  of  his  neck.  Despard  bound 
these  up  as  best  he  could,  and  then  sat 
wondering  what  could  be  done  next. 

He  judged  that  he  might  be  four  or 
five  miles  from  Denton,  and  saw  that  this 
was  the  place  to  which  he  must  go.  Be- 
sides. Beatrice  was  there,  and  she  could 
nurse  Langhetti.  But  how  could  he  get 
there  ? — that  was  the  question.  It  was 
impossible  for  Langhetti  to  go  on  horse- 
back. He  tried  to  form  some  plan  by 
which  this  might  be  done.  He  began  to 
make  a  sort  of  litter  to  be  hung  between 
two  horses,  and  had  already  cut  down 
with  his  knife  two  small  trees,  or  rather 
bushes,  for  this  purpose,  when  the  noise 
of  wheels  on  the  road  before  him  at- 
tracted his  attention. 

It  was  a  farmer's  wagon,  and  it  was 
coming  from  the  direction  of  Denton. 
Despard  stopped  it,  explained  his  situa- 
tion, and  offered  to  pay  anything  if  the 
farmer  would  turn  back  and  convey  his 
friend  and  his  prisoner  to  Denton.  It 
did  not  take  long  to  strike  a  bargain  ;  the 
farmer  turned  his  horses,  some  soft  shrubs 
and  ferns  were  strewn  on  the  bottom  of 
the  wagon,  and  on  these  Langhetti  was 
deposited  carefully.    Clark,  who  by  this 


time  had  come  to  himself,  was  put  at  one 
end,  where  he  sat  grimly  and  sulkily ; 
the  three  horses  were  led  behind,  and 
Despard,  riding  on  the  wagon,  supported 
the  head  of  Langhetti  on  his  knees. 

Slowly  and  carefully  they  went  to  the 
village.  Despard  had  no  difficulty  in 
finding  the  cottage.  It  was  where  the 
letter  had  described  it.  The  village  inn 
stood  near,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
road. 

It  was  about  nine  o'clock  in  the  even- 
ing when  they  reached  the  cottage. 
Lights  were  burning  in  the  windows. 
Despard  jumped  out  ha:  tily  and  knocked. 
A  servant  came.  Desp  ird  asked  for  the 
mistress,  and  Beatrice  appeared.  As  she 
recognized  him  her  face  lighted  up  with 
joy.  But  Despard's  face  was  sad  and 
gloomy.  He  pressed  her  hand  in  silence 
and  said  : 

"  My  dear  adopted  sister,  I  bring  you 
our  beloved  Langhetti." 

*'  Langhetti ! "  t)he  exclaimed  fearfully. 

"  He  has  met  with  an  accident.  Is 
there  a  doctor  in  the  place  ?  Send  your 
servant  at  once." 

Beatrice  hurried  in  and  returned  with  a 
servant. 

"  We  will  first  lift  him  out,"  said  Des- 
pard.    "  Is  there  a  bed  ready  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes !  Bring  him  in  !  "  cried 
Beatrice,  who  was  now  in  an  agony  of 
suspense. 

She  hurried  after  them  to  the  wagon. 
They  lifted  Langhetti  out  and  took  him 


384 


THE   WORM    « .RN3 


a85 


self,  was  put  at  one 
rimly  and  sulkily  i 
re  led  behind,  and 
le  wagon,  supported 
i  on  his  knees, 
ly  Ihey  went  to  the 
id    no    difficulty    in 
It  was  where  the 
it.    The  village  inn 
jpposite  side  of  the 

o'clock  in  the  even- 
;achr;d  the  cottage, 
ig  in  the  windows, 
haj  tily  and  knocked, 
esp  ird  asked  for  the 
:e  appeared.  As  she 
face  lighted  up  wiili 
face  was  sad  and 
her  hand  in  silence 

Id  sister,  I  bring  you 

Iti." 

exclaimed  fearfully. 
tth  an  accident.    Is 

place  ?    Send  your 

and  returned  with  a 

him  out,"  said  Des- 
jbed  ready?" 
|vg    him    in!"    cried 
low  in  an  agony  of 

I  them  to  the  wagon. 
\i  out  and  took  him 


into  a  room  whi'  .  Beatrice  showed 
them.  They  tenderly  laid  him  on  the 
bed.  Meanwhile  the  servant  had  hur- 
ried off  for  a  doctor,  who  soon  appeared. 

Beatrice  sat  by  his  bedside ;  she  kissed 
the  brow  of  the  almost  unconscious 
sufferer,  and  tried  in  every  possible  way 
to  alleviate  his  pain.  The  doctor  soon 
arrived,  dressed  his  wounds,  and  left 
directions  for  his  care,  which  consisted 
chiefly  in  constant  watchfulness. 

Leaving  Langhetti  under  the  charge  of 
Beatrice,  Despard  went  in  search  of  a 
magistrate.  He  found  one  without  any 
difficulty,  and  before  an  hour  Clark  was 
safe  in  jail.  The  ir.'ormation  which  Des- 
pard  lodged  against  him  was  corroborated 
by  the  brands  on  his  back,  which  showed 
him  to  be  a  man  of  desperate  character, 
who  had  foirmerly  been  transported  for 
crime. 


Despard  next  wrote  a  letter  to  Mrs. 
Thornton.  He  told  her  about  Langhetti, 
and  urged  her  to  come  on  immediately 
and  bring  Edith  with  her.  Then  he  re- 
tured  to  the  cottage  and  wished  to  sit 
up  with  Langhetti.  Beatrice,  however, 
would  not  let  him.  She  said  that  no  one 
should  deprive  her  of  the  place  by  his 
bedside.  Despard  remained,  however, 
and  the  two  devoted  equal  attention  to 
the  sufferer.  Langhetti  spoke  only  once. 
He  was  so  faint  that  his  voice  was  scarce 
audible.  Beatrice  put  her  ear  close  to  his 
mouth. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Despard. 

"  He  wants  Edith,"  said  Beatrice. 

"  I   have  written  for  her,"  said  Des- 
pard. 

Beatrice  whispered  this  to  Langhetti. 
An  ecstatic  smile  passed  over  his  face. 

"  It  is  well,"  he  murmured. 


CHAPTER   LIV 


THE    V.'  O  R  M     TURNS 


Potts  departed  from  the  Hall  in  deep 
dejection.  The  tremendous  power  of  his 
enemy  had  been  shown  all  along;  and 
now  that  this  enemy  turned  out  to  be 
Louis  Brandon,  he  felt  as  though  some 
supernatural  being  had  taken  up  arms 
against  him.  Against  that  being  a 
struggle  seemed  as  hopeless  as  it  would 
be  against  Fate.  It  was  with  some  such 
feeling  as  this  that  he  left  Brandon  Hall 
forever. 

All  of  his  errand  projects  had  broken 
down,  suddenly  and  utterly.  He  had  not 
a  ray  of  hope  left  of  ever  regaining  the 
position    which     he    had    but     recently 


occupied.  He  was  thrust  back  to  the 
obscurity  from  which  he  had  emerged. 

One  thing  troubled  him.  Would  the 
power  of  his  remorseless  enemy  be  now 
stayed — would  his  vengeance  end  here  ? 
He  could  scarce  hope  for  this.  He 
judged  that  enemy  by  himself,  and  he 
knew  that  he  would  not  stop  in  the  search 
after  vengeance,  that  nothing  short  of  the 
fullest  and  direct  ruin — nothing,  in  fact, 
short  of  death  itself  would  satisfy  him. 

John  was  with  him,  and  Vijal,  who 
alone  out  of  all  the  servants  had  followed 
his  fortunes.  These  three  walked  down 
and  passed  through  the  gates  together. 


aS6 


CORD   AND   CREESE 


o 

o 

I 


and  emerged  into  the  outer  world  in  si- 
lence. But  when  they  had  left  the  gates 
the  silence  ended. 

"  Well,  dad !  "  said  John,  "  what  are 
you  going  to  do  now  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Have  you  any  money  ?  " 

"  Four  thousand  pounds  in  the  bank." 

"  Not  much,  dad,"  said  John  slowly, 
"  for  a  man  who  last  month  was  worth 
millions.  You're  coming  out  at  the  little 
end  of  the  horn." 

Potts  made  no  reply. 

"  At  any  rate  there's  one  comfort," 
said  John,  "  even  about  that." 

"  What  comfort  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  went  in  at  the  little  end." 

They  walked  on  in  silence. 

"  You  must  do  something,"  said  John 
at  last. 

"What  can  I  do?" 

"  You  won't  let  that  fellow  ride  the 
high  horse  in  this  style,  will  you  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  help  it  ?  " 

"  You  can't  help  it ;  but  you  can  strike 
a  blow  yourself." 

"How?" 

"  How  ?  You've  struck  blows  before 
to  some  purpose,  I  think." 

"But  I  never  yet  knew  anyone  with 
such  tremendous  power  as  this  man  has. 
And  where  did  he  get  all  his  money  ? 
You  said  before  that  he  was  the  devil,  and 
I  believe  it.  Where's  Clark?  Do  you 
think  he  has  succeeded  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  John. 

"  No  more  do  I.  This  man  has  every- 
body in  his  pay.  Look  at  the  servants  ! 
See  how  easily  he  did  what  he  wished  !  " 

"  You've  got  one  servant  left." 

"  Ah,  yes— that's  a  fact." 

"That  servant  will  do  something  for 
you." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Brandon  is  a  man,  after  all — and  can 


die"  said  John  with  deep  emphasis. 
"  Vijal,"  he  continued  in  a  whisper, 
"  hates  me,  but  he  would  lay  down  his 
life  for   you." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Potts,  after  a 
pause. 

A  long  silence  followed. 

"  You  go  on  to  the  inn,"  said  Potts  at 
last.    "  I'll  talk  with  Vijal." 

"  Shall  I  risk  the  policemen  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  run  no  risk.  I'll  sleep  in  the 
bank." 

"  All  right,"  said  John,  and  he  walked 
away. 

"  Vijal,"  said  Potts,  dropping  back  so 
as  to  wait  for  the  Malay,  "  you  are 
faithful  to  me?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Vijal. 

"  All  the  others  betrayed  me,  but  you 
did  not  ?  " 

"  Never ! " 

"Do  you  know  when  you  first  saw 
me?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  saved  your  life." 

"  Yes." 

"  Your  father  was  seized  at  Manilla 
and  killed  for  murder,  but  I  protected 
you,  and  promised  to  take  care  of  you. 
Haven't  I  done  so?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Vijal  humbly,  and  in  a 
reverent  tone. 

"  Haven't  I  been  another  father?  " 

"You   have." 

"  Didn't  I  promise  to  tell  you  some 
day  who  the  man  was  that  killed  your 
father  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  exclaimed  Vijal  fiercely. 

"Well,   I'm  going  to  tell  you." 

"  Who  ?  "  cried  Vijal,  in  excitement  so 
strong  that  he  could  scarce  speak. 

"  Did  you  see  that  man  who  drove  me 
out  of  the  Hall  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  that  was  the  man.     He  killed 


ON    THE    ROAD 


«87 


laid    Potts,  after  a 


ohn,  and  he  walked 


vhen  you  first  saw 


your  father.  He  has  ruined  me — your 
other  father.  What  do  you  say  to 
that .'  •• 

"  He  shall  die,"  returned  Vijal  sol- 
emnly.   "He  shall  die." 

"  I  am  an  old  man,"  resumed  Potts. 
"HI  were  as  strong  as  I  used  to  be  1 
would  not  talk  about  this  to  you.  I 
would  do  it  all  myself." 

"I'll  do  it!"  cried  Vijal.    "I'll  do  it!" 

His  eyes  flashed,  his  nostrils  dilated — 
all  the  savage  within  him  was  aroused. 
Potts  saw  this  and  rejoiced. 

"  Do  you  know  how  to  use  this  ?  "  he 
asked,  showing  Vijal  the  cord  which 
Brandon  had  given  him. 

Vijal's  eyes  dilated,  a  wilder  fire  shone 
ill  them.  He  seized  the  cord,  turned  it 
round  his  hand  for  a  moment,  and  then 
liurled  it  at  Potts.  It  passed  round  and 
round  his  waist. 

"  Ah !  "  said  Potts,  with  deep  gratifica- 
tion. "You  have  not  forgotten.  You 
can  throw  it  skilfully." 


Vijal  nodded,  and  said  nothing. 

"  Keep  the  cord.  Follow  up  that  man. 
Avenge  your  father's  death  and  my 
ruin." 

"  I  will,"  said  Vijal  sternly. 

"  It  may  take  long.  Follow  him  up. 
Do  not  come  back  to  me  till  you  come  to 
tell  me  that  he  is  dead." 

Vijal  nodded. 

"  Now  I  am  going.  I  must  fiy  and 
hide  myself  from  this  man.  As  long  as 
he  lives  I  am  in  danger.  But  you  will 
always  find  John  at  the  inn  when  you 
wish  to  see  me." 

"  I  will  lay  down  my  life  for  you,"  said 
Vijal. 

"  I  don't  want  your  life,"  returned 
Potts.    "  I   want  his." 

"  You  shall  have  it,"  exclaimed  Vijal. 

Potts  said  no  more.  He  handed  Vijal 
his  purse  in  silence.  The  latter  took  it 
without  a  word.  Potts  then  went  toward 
the  bank,  and  Vijal  stood  alone  in  the 
road. 


seized  at  Manilla 

er,  but  I  protected 

take  care  of  you. 


CHAPTER  LV 


ON     THE     ROAD 


to  tell  you  some 
fas  that  killed  your 

Vijal  fiercely. 

to  tell  you." 
jal,  in  excitement  so 
1  scarce  speak. 

man  who  drove  me 


man.     He  killed 


On  the  following  morning  Brandon 
started  from  the  Hall  at  an  early  hour. 
He  was  on  horseback.  He  rode  down 
through  the  gates.  Passing  through  the 
village  he  went  by  the  inn  and  took  the 
road  to  Denton. 

He  had  not  gone  far  before  another 
horseman  followed  him.  The  latter  rode 
at  a  rapid  pace.  Brandon  did  not  pay 
any  especial  attention  to  him,  and  at 
length  the  latter  overtook  him.  It  was 
when    they    were    nearly    abreast    that 


Brandon  recognized  the  other.  It  was 
Vijal. 

"  Good-morning,"  said  Vijal. 

"  Good-morning,"  replied  Brandon. 

"  Are  you  going  to  Denton  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  So  am  I,"  said  Vijal. 

Brandon  was  purposely  courteous, 
although  it  was  not  exactly  the  thing  for 
a  gentleman  to  be  thus  addressed  by 
a  servant.  He  saw  that  this  servant  had 
overreached   himself,  and   knew  that  he 


s88 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


must  have  some  motive  for  joining  him 
and  addressing  him  in  so  familiar  a 
manner. 

He  suspected  what  might  be  Vijal's 
aim,  and  therefore  kept  a  close  watch  on 
him.  He  saw  that  Vijal,  while  holding 
the  reins  in  his  left  hand,  kept  his  right 
hand  concealed  in  his  breast.  A  sus- 
picion darted  across  his  mind.  He 
stroked  his  mustache  with  his  own  right 
hand,  which  he  kept  constantly  upraised, 
and  talked  cheerfully  and  patronizingly 
with  his  companion.  After  a  while  he 
fell  back  a  littk  and  drew  forth  a  knife, 
which  he  concealed  in  his  hand,  and  then 
he  rode  forward  as  before  abreast  of  the 
other,  assuming  the  appearance  of  per- 
fect calm  and  indifference. 

"  Have  you  left  Potts  ?  "  said  Brandon, 
after  a  short  time. 

"  No  "  replied  Vijal. 

"  Ah !  Then  you  are  on  some  busi- 
ness of  his  now  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

Brandon  was  silent. 

"  Would  you  like  to  know  what  it  is  ?  " 
asked  Vijal. 

"  Not  particularly,"  said  Brandon 
coldly. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  ?  " 

"  If  you  choose." 

Vijal  raised  his  hand  suddenly  and 
gave  a  quick,  short  jerk,  A  cord  flew 
,M,rth — there  was  a  weight  at  the  end. 
The  cord  was  flung  straight  at  Brandon's 
neck. 

Ma  Brandon  had  been  on  his  guard. 
At  the  movement  of  Vijal's  arm  he  had 
raised  his  own  ;  the  cord  passed  around 
liiin,  but  his  arm  was  within  its  embrace. 
In  his  hand  he  held  a  knife  concealed. 
In  an  instant  he  slashed  his  knife  through 
the  windings  of  the  cord,  severing  them 
all ;  then  dropping  the  knife  he  plunged 
his  hand  into  the  pocket  of  his  coat,  and 


before  Vijal  could  recover  from  his  sur- 
prise he  drew  forth  a  revolver  and  pointed 
it  at  him. 

Vijal  saw  at  once  that  he  was  lost.  He 
nevertheless  plunged  his  spurs  into  his 
horse  and  made  a  desperate  effort  to 
escape.  As  his  horse  bounded  off  Bran- 
don fired.  The  animal  gave  a  wild  neigli, 
which  sounded  almost  like  a  shriek,  and 
fell  upon  the  road,  throwing  Vijal  over 
his  head. 

In  an  instant  Brandon  was  up  with 
him.  He  leaped  from  his  horse  before 
Vijal  had  disencumbered  himself  from 
his,  and  seizing  the  Malay  by  the  collar, 
held  the  pistol  at  his  head. 

"If  you  move,"  he  cried  sternly,  "  I'll 
blow  your  brains  out ! " 

Vijal  lay  motionless. 

"  -Scoundrel !  "  exclaimed  Brandon,  as 
he  held  him  with  the  revolver  pressed 
against  his  head ;  "  who  sent  you  to  do 
this?" 

Vijal  in  sullen  silence  answered  noth- 
ing. 

"Tell  me  or  I'll  kill  you.  Was  it 
Potts?" 

Vijal  made  no  reply. 

"  Speak  out,"  cried  Brandon.  "  Fool 
that  you  are,  I  don't  want  your  life. " 

"You  are  the  murderer  of  my  father," 
said  Vijal  fiercely,  "  and  therefore  I 
sought  to  kill  you." 

Brandon  gave  a  low  laugh. 

"The  murderer  of  your  father?"  he 
repeated. 

"Yes,"  cried  Vijal  wildly;  "and  1 
sought  your  death." 

Brandon  laughed  again. 

"  Do  you  know  how  old  I  am  ?  " 

Vijal  looked  up  in  amazement.  He 
saw  by  that  one  look  what  he  had  not 
thought  of  before  in  his  excitement,  that 
Brandon  was  a  younger  man  than  him- 
self by  several  years.    He  was  silent. 


ON    THE    ROAD 


289 


ttce  answered  noth- 


kill   you.    Was  it 


al  wildly;    "and   1 


"  How  many  years  is  it  since  your 
father  died?" 

Vijal  said  nothing. 

"Fool!"  exclaimed  Brandon.  "It's 
twenty  years.  You  are  false  to  your 
fath.  *  You  pretend  to  avenge  his  death, 
and  you  seek  out  a  young  man  who  had 
no  connection  with  it.  I  was  in  Eng- 
land when  he  was  killed.  I  was  a  child 
only  seven  years  of  age.  Do  you  believe 
now  that  I  am  his  murderer  ?  " 

Brandon,  while  speaking  in  this  way, 
had  relaxed  his  hold,  though  he  still  held 
his  pistol  pointed  at  the  head  of  his  pros- 
trate enemy.  Vijal  gave  a  long,  low 
sigh. 

"  You  were  too  young,"  he  said  at  last. 
"  You  are  younger  than  I  am.  I  was  only 
twelve." 

"  I  could  not  have  been  his  murderer, 
then  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Yet  I  know  who  his  murderer  was, 
for  I   have  found  out." 

"Who?" 

"  The  same  man  who  killed  my  own 
father." 

Vijal  looked  at  Brandon  with  awful 
eyes. 

"Your  father  had  a  brother?"  said 
Brandon. 

"  Yes." 

"  Do  you  know  his  name  ?  " 

"Yes.     Zangorri." 

"  Right.  Well,  do  you  know  what 
Zangorri  did  to  avenge  his  brother's 
death  ?  " 

"  No ;  what  ?  " 

"  For  many  years  he  vowed  death  to 
all  Englishmen,  since  it  was  an  English- 
man who  had  caused  the  death  of  his 
brother.  He  had  a  ship ;  he  got  a  crew 
and  sailed  through  the  Eastern  seas, 
capturing  English  ships  and  killing  the 
crews.    This  was  his  vengeance." 


Vijal  gave  a  groan. 

"You  see  he  has  done  more  than  you. 
He  knew  better  than  you  who  it  was 
that  had  killed  your  father." 

"  Who  was  it  ?  "  cried  Vijal  fiercely. 

"  I  saw  him  twice,"  continued  Bran- 
don, without  noticing  the  question  of 
the  other.  "  I  saw  him  twice,  and  twice 
he  told  me  the  name  of  the  man  whose 
death  he  sought.  For  year  after  year  he 
had  sought  after  that  man,  but  had  not 
found  him.  Hundreds  of  Englishmen 
had  fallen.  He  told  me  the  name  of  the 
man  whom  he  sought,  and  charged  me 
to  carry  out  his  work  of  vengeance.  I 
promised  to  do  so,  for  I  had  a  work  of 
vengeance  of  my  own  to  perform,  and  on 
the  same  man,  too." 

"  Who  was  he  ?  "  repeated  Vijal,  with 
increased   excitement. 

"  When  I  saw  him  last  he  gave  me 
something  which  he  said  he  had  worn 
around  his  neck  for  years.  I  took  it,  and 
promised  to  wear  it  till  the  vengeance 
which  he  sought  should  be  accomplished. 
I  did  so,  for  I  too  had  a  debt  of  ven- 
geance stronger  than  his,  and  on  the 
same   man." 

"Who  was  he?"  cried  Vijal  p^ain, 
with  restless  impetuosity. 

Brandon  unbuttoned  his  vest  and  drew 
forth  a  Malay  creese,  which  was  hung 
around  his  neck  and  worn  under  his  coat. 

"Do  you  know  what  this  is?"  he 
asked  solemnly. 

Vijal  took  it  and  looked  at  it  earnestly. 
His  eyes  dilated,  his  nostrils  quivered. 

"  My  father's ! "  he  cried  in  a  tremulous 
voice. 

I 

"  Can  you  read  English  letters  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Can  you  read  the  name  that  is  cut 
upon  it  ?  " 

And  Brandon  pointed  to  a  place  where 
some  letters  were  carved. 


290 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


Vijal  looked  earnestly  at  it.  He  saw 
these  words : 

JOHN  POTTS. 

"  That,"  said  Brandon,  "  is  what  your 
father's  brother  gave  to  me." 

"  It's  a  lie ! "  growled  Vijal  fiercely. 

"It's  true,"  said  Brandon  calmly, 
"  and  it  was  carved  there  by  your  father's 
own  hand." 


Vijal  said  nothing  for  a  long  time. 
Brandon  arose,  and  put  his  pistol  in  his 
pocket.  Vijal,  disencumbering  himself 
from  his  horse,  arose  also.-  The  two 
stood  together  on  the  road. 

For  hours  they  remained  there  talking. 
At  last  Brandon  remounted  and  rode  on 
to  Denton.  But  Vijal  went  back  to  the 
village  of  Brandon.  He  carried  with 
him  the  creese  which  Brandon  had  given 
him. 


o 
o 

i 

o 


CO 


CHAPTER  LVI 


FATHER    AND    SON 


Vijal,  on  going  back  to  Brandon  vil- 
lage, went  first  to  the  inn,  where  he  saw 
John.  To  the  enquiries  which  were 
eagerly  addressed  to  him  he  answered 
nothing,  but  simply  said  that  he  wished 
to  see  Potts.  John,  finding  him  imprac- 
ticable, cursed  him  and  led  the  way  to 
the  bank. 

As  Vijal  entered  Potts  locked  the 
door  carefully,  and  then  anxiously  ques- 
tioned him.  Vijal  gave  a  plain  account 
of  what  had  happened,  but  with  some 
important  alterations  and  omissions.  In 
the  first  place,  he  said  nothing  what- 
ever of  the  long  interview  which  had 
taken  place  and  the  startling  infor- 
mation which  he  had  received.  In  the 
second  place,  he  assured  Potts  that 
he  must  have  attacked  the  wrong  man. 
For  when  this  man  had  spared  his  life  he 
looked  at  him  closely  and  found  out  that 
he  was  not  the  one  that  he  ought  to  have 
attacked. 

"You  blasted  fool,"  cried  Potts. 
"  Haven't  you  got  eyes  ?    D n  you ; 


I  wish  the  fellow,  whoever  he  is,  had 
seized  you,  or  blown  your  brains  out." 

Vijal  cast  down   his  eyes  humbly. 

"  I  can  try  again,"  said  he.  "  I  have 
made  a  mistake  this  time ;  the  next  time 
I  will  make  sure." 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  of 
his  voice  so  remorseless  and  so  vengeful 
that  Potts  felt  reassured. 

"  You  are  a  good  lad,"  said  he,  "  a 
good  lad.     And  you'll  try  again?" 

"Yes,"  said  Vijal,  with  flashing  eyes. 

"  You'll  make  sure  this  time  ?  " 

"  I'll  make  sure  this  time.  But  I  must 
have  someone  with  me,"  he  continucfl. 
"  You  need  not  trouble  yourself.  Send 
John  with  me.  He  won't  mistake.  If  he 
is  with  me  I'll  make  sure." 

As  the  Malay  said  this  a  brighter  and 
more  vivid  flash  shone  from  his  eyes. 
He  gave  a  malevolent  smile,  and  his 
white  teeth  glistened  balefully.  Instantly 
he  checked  the  smile  and  cast  down  his 
eyes. 

"  Ah  I "  said  Potts.  "  That's  very  good. 


FATHER    AND    SON 


291 


ling  in  the  tone  of 

ess  and  so  vengeful 

red. 

1  lad,"  said  he.  "a 

I'll  try  again?" 

with  flashing  eyes. 

this  time  ?  " 
is  time.     But  I  must 

me,"  he  continued, 
able  yourself.  Send 
von't  mistake.  If  he 
sure." 

this  a  brighter  and 
lone  from  his  eyes. 
(lent  smile,  and  liis 

balefully.  Instantly 
;  and  cast  down  his 

"  That's  very  good. 


John  shall  go.    Johnnie,  you  don't  mind 
going,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I'll  go,"  said  John  languidly. 

"  You'll  know  the  fellow,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  I  rather  think  I  should." 

"  But  what  will  you  do  first  ?  " 

'  Go  to  Denton,"  said  John. 

"  To  Denton  ?  "    ' 

"  Yes." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Because  Brandon  is  there." 

"  How  can  he  be  ?  " 

"  Simply,"  said  John,  "  because  I  know 
the  man  that  Vijal  attacked  must  have 
been  Brandon.  No  other  person  answers 
to  the  description.  No  other  person 
would  be  so  quick  to  dodge  the  cord,  and 
so  quick  with  the  revolver.  He  has  hum- 
bugged Vijal  somehow,  and  this  fool  of 
a  nigger  has  believed  him.  He  was 
Brandon,  and  no  one  else,  and  I'm  going 
on  his  track." 

"Well,  you're  right  perhaps,"  said 
Potts ;  "  but  take  care  of  yourself, 
Johnnie." 

John  gave  a  dry  smile. 

"  I'll  try  to  do  so ;  and  I  hope  to  take 
care  of  others  also,"  said  he. 

"God  bless  you,  Johnnie,"  said  Potts 
affectionately,  not  knowing  the  blas- 
phemy of  invoking  the  blessing  of  God 
on  one  who  was  setting  out  to  commit 
murder. 

"You're  spoony,  dad,"  returned  John, 
and  he  left  the  bank  with  Vijal. 

John  went  back  to  the  inn  first,  and 
after  a  few  preparations  started  for  Den- 
ton. On  the  way  he  amused  himself 
with  coarse  jests  at  Vijal's  stupidity  in 
allowing  himself  to  be  deceived  by  Bran- 
don, taunted  him  with  cowardice  in  yield- 
ing so  easily,  and  assured  him  that  one 
who  was  so  great  a  coward  could  not 

possibly  succeed  in  any  undertaking. 
Toward  evening  they  reached  the  inn 


at  Denton.  John  was  anxious  not  to 
show  himself,  so  he  went  at  once  to  the 
inn,  directing  Vijal  to  keep  a  lookout 
for  Brandon  and  let  him  know  if  he  saw 
anyone  who  looked  like  him.  These 
directions  were  accompanied  and  inter- 
mingled with  numerous  threats  as  to 
what  he  would  do  if  Vijal  dared  to  fail 
in  any  particular.  The  Malay  listened 
calmly,  showing  none  of  that  impatience 
and  haughty  resentment  which  he  for- 
merly used  to  manifest  toward  John,  and 
quietly  promised  to  do  what  was  ordered. 

About  ten  o'clock  John  happened  to 
look  out  of  the  window.  He  saw  a  figure 
standing  where  the  light  from  the  win- 
dows flashed  out,  which  at  once  attracted 
his  attention.  It  was  the  man  whom  he 
sought — it  was  Brandon.  Was  he  stop- 
ping at  the  same  inn  ?  If  so,  why  had 
not  Vijal  told  him  ?  He  at  once  sum- 
moned Vijal,  who  came  as  calm  as  ever. 
To  John's  impatient  questions  as  to  why 
he  had  not  told  him  about  Brandon,  he 
answered  that  Brandon  had  only  come 
there  half  an  hour  previously,  and  that  he 
had  been  watching  him  ever  since  to  see 
what  he  was  going  to  do. 

"  You  must  keep  on  watching  him, 
then;  do  you  hear?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  if  you  let  him  slip  this  time,  you 
infernal  nigger,  you'll  pay  dear  for  it." 

"  I'll  not  make  a  mistake  this  time," 
was  Vijal's  answer.  And  as  he  spoke 
his  eyes  gleamed,  and  again  that  baleful 
smile  passed  over  his  face. 

"  That's  the  man,"  said  John.  "  You 
understand  that  ?  That's  the  man  you've 
got  to  fix,  do  you  hear  ?  Don't  be  a  fool 
this  time.  You  must  manage  it  to-night, 
for  I  don't  want  to  wait  here  forever.  I 
leave  it  to  you.  I  only  came  to  make 
sure  of  the  man.  I'm  tired,  and  I'm 
going  to  bed  soon.    When  I  wake  tg- 


29a 


CORD   AND   CREESE 


o 
o 

I 

O 


CO 

M4 


morrow  I  expect  to  hear  from  you  that 
you  have  finished  this  business.     If  you 

don't,  d n  you,  I'll  wring  your  infernal 

nigger's  neck." 

"It  will  all  be  done  by  to-morrow," 
said  Vijal  calmly. 

"  Then  clear  out  and  leave  me.  I'm 
going  to  bed.  What  you've  got  to  do  is 
to  watch  that  man." 

Vijal  retired. 

The  night  passed.  When  the  follow- 
ing morning  came  John  was  not  up 
at  the  ordinary  breakfast  hour.  Nine 
o'clock  came.  Ten  o'clock.  Still  he  did 
not  appear. 

"  He's  a  lazy  fellow,"  said  the  landlord, 
"though  he  don't  look  like  it.  And 
Where's  his  servant?" 

"  The  servant  went  back  to  Brandon 
at  daybreak,"  was  the  answer. 

Eleven  o'clock  came.  Still  there  were 
no  sigiis  of  John.  There  was  a  balcony 
in  the  inn  which  ran  in  front  of  the  win- 
dows of  the  room  occupied  by  John. 
After  knocking  at  the  door  once  or  twice 
the  landlord  tapped  at  the  window  and 
tried  to  peep  in  to  see  if  the  occupant 
was  awake  or  not.  One  part  of  the  blind 
was  drawn  a  little  aside,  and  showed  the 
bed  and  the  form  of  a  man  still  lying 
there. 

*'  He's  an  awful  sleeper,"  said  the  land- 
lord. "  It's  twelve  o'clock,  and  he  isn't 
up  yet.  Well,  it's  his  business,  not 
mine." 

About  half  an  hour  after  the  noise  of 
wheels  was  heard,  and  a  wagon  drove 
swiftly  into  the  yard  of  the  inn.  An  old 
man  jumped  out,  gave  his  horse  to  the 
hostler,  and  entered  the  inn. 

He  was  somewhat  flushed  and  flurried. 
His  eyes  twinkled  brightly,  and  there  WJis 
a  somewhat  exuberant  familiarity  in  his 
address  to  the  landlord. 

"  There  was  a  party  who  stopped  here 


last  night,"  said  he,  "that  I  wish  to 
see. 

"  There  was  only  one  person  here  last 
night,"  answered  the  landlord  ;  "  a  young 
man " 

"  A  young  man,  yes — that's  right ;  I 
want  to  see  him." 

"  Well,  as  to  that,"  said  the  landlord, 
"  I  don't  know  but  you'll  have  to  wait. 
He  aint    up  yet." 

"  Isn't  he  up  yet  ?  " 

"  No  ;  he's  an  awful  sleeper.  He  went 
to  bed  last  night  early,  for  his  lights  were 
out  before  eleven,  and  now  it's  nearly  one, 
and  he  isn't  up." 

"  At  any  rate,  I  must  see  him." 

"  Shall  I  wake  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  be  quick,  for  I'm  in  a  hurry." 

The  landlord  went  up  to  the  door  and 
knocked  loudly.  There  was  no  answer. 
He  knocked  still  more  loudly.  Still  no 
answer.  He  then  kept  up  an  incessant 
rapping  for  about  ten  minutes.  Still 
there  was  no  answer.  He  had  tried  the 
door  before,  but  it  was  locked  on  the 
inside.  He  went  around  to  the  windows 
that  opened  on  the  balcony  ;  these  were 
open. 

He  then  went  down  and  told  the  old 
man  that  the  door  was  fastened,  but  that 
the  windows  were  unfastened.  If  he 
chose  to  go  in  there  he  might  do  so. 

"  I  will  do  so,"  said  the  other,  "  for  I 
must  see  him.  I  have  business  of  im- 
portance."   He  went  up. 

The  landlord  and  some  of  the  servants, 
whose  curiosity  was  by  this  time  excited, 
followed  after. 

The  old  man  opened  the  window,  which 
swung  back  on  hinges,  and  entered. 
There  was  a  man  in  the  bed. 

He  lay  motionless.  The  old  man 
approached.      He    recognized  the  face. 

A  cold  chill  went  to  his  heart.  He 
tore  down  the  coverlet,  which  concealed 


MRS.    COMPTON  S   SECRET 


293 


"that   I  wish  to 


>res— that's  right ;  I 


ust  see  him." 

1?" 

{,  for  I'm  in  a  hurry." 
t  up  to  the  door  and 
lere  was  no  answer, 
ore  loudly.  Still  no 
iept  up  an  incessant 
ten  minutes.  Still 
r.  He  had  tried  the 
was  locked  on  the 
)und  to  the  windows 
balcony ;  these  were 

vn  and  told  the  okl 
as  fastened,  but  that 
unfastened.  If  lie 
e  he  might  do  so. 
id  the  other,  "  for  I 
lave  business  of  im- 
t  up. 

some  of  the  servants, 
by  this  time  excited, 


the  greater  part  of  his  face.  The  next 
moment  he  fell  forward  upon  the  bed. 

"Johnnie ! "  he  screamed — "  Johnnie ! " 

There  was  no  answer.  The  face  was 
rigid  and  fixed.  Around  the  neck  wus 
a  faint,  bluish  line,  a  mark  like  what 
might  have  been  made  by  a  cord. 

"  Johnnie,  Johnnip ! "  cried  the  old  man 
again,  in  piercing  tones.  He  caught  at 
the  hands  of  the  figure  before  him ;  he 
tried  to  pull  it  forward. 

There  was  no  response.  The  old  man 
turned  away  and  rushed  to  the  window, 
gasping,  with  white  lips,  and  bloodshot 
eyes,  and  a  face  of  horror. 

"He  is  dead!"  he  shrieked.  "My 
boy — my  son — my  Johnnie!  Murderer! 
You  have  killed  him." 


The  landlord  and  the  servants  started 
back  in  horror  from  the  presence  of  this 
father  in  his  misery. 

It  was  for  but  a  moment  that  he  stood 
there.  He  went  back  and  flung  himself 
upon  the  bed.  Then  he  came  forth  again 
and  stood  upon  the  balcony,  motionless, 
white-faced,  speechless — his  lips  mutter- 
ing inaudible  words. 

A  crowd  gathered  round.  The  story 
soon  spread.  This  was  the  father  of  a 
young  man  who  had  stopped  at  the  inn 
and  died  suddenly.  The  crowd  that 
gathered  around  the  inn  saw  the  father  as 
he  stood  on  the  balcony. 

The  dwellers  in  the  cottage  that  was 
almost  opposite  saw  him,  and  Asgeelo 
brought  them  the  news. 


CHAPTER  LVII 


MRS.  COMPTON 'S  SECRET 


On  the  night  after  the  arrival  of  John, 
Brandon  had  left  Denton.  He  did  not 
return  till  the  following  day.  On  arriving 
at  the  inn  he  saw  an  unusual  spectacle — 
the  old  man  on  the  balcony,  the  crowd 
of  villagers  around,  the  universal  excite- 
ment. 

On  entering  the  inn  he  found  someone 
who  for  some  time  had  been  waiting  to 
see  him.  It  was  Philips.  Philips  had 
come  early  in  the  morning,  and  had  been 
over  to  the  cottage.  He  had  learned  all 
about  the  affair  at  the  inn,  and  narrated 
it  to  Brandon,  who  listened  with  his  usual 
calmness.  He  then  gave  him  a  letter 
from  Frank,  which  Brandon  read  and  put 
in  his  pocket. 

Then  Philips  told  him  the  news  which 


he  had  learned  at  the  cottage  about 
Langhetti.  Langhetti  and  Despard  were 
both  there  yet,  the  former  very  danger- 
ously ill,  the  latter  waiting  for  some 
friends.  He  also  told  about  the  affair  on 
the  road,  the  seizure  of  Clark,  and  his 
delivery  into  the  hands  of  the  authorities. 

Brandon  heard  all  this  with  the  deepest 
interest.  While  the  excitement  at  the 
inn  was  still  at  its  height,  he  hurried  off 
to  the  magistrate  into  whose  hands  Clark 
had  been  committed.  After  an  interview 
with  him  he  returned.  He  found  the 
excitement  unabated.  He  then  went  to 
the  cottage  close  by  the  inn,  where  Bea- 
trice had  found  a  home,  and  Langhetti  a 
refuge.     Philips  was  with  him. 

On   knocking   at   the    door   Asgeelo 


294 


CORD    AND    CREESE 


o 
o 

-J 
or 

I 

O 


CO 


opened  it.  They  entered  the  parlor,  and 
in  H  short  time  Mrs.  Compton  appeared. 
Brandon's  first  enquiry  was  after 
Langlietti. 

"  He  is  about  the  same,"  said  Mrs. 
Compton. 

"  Does  the  doctor  hold  out  any  hopes 
of  his  recovery  ? "  asked  Brandon 
anxiously. 

"  Very  little,"  said  Mrs.  Compton. 

"  Who  nurses  him  ?  " 

"  Miss  Potts  and  Mr.  Despard." 

"  Are  they  both  here  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

Brandon  was  silent. 

"  I  will  go  and  tell  them  that  you  are 
here,"  said  Mrs.  Compton. 

Brandon  made  no  reply,  and  Mrs. 
Compton,  taking  silence  for  assent, 
went  to  announce  his  arrival. 

In  a  short  time  they  appeared.  Bea- 
trice entered  first.  She  was  grave,  and 
cold,  and  solemn  ;  Despard  was  gloomy 
and  atern.  They  both  shook  hands  with 
Brandon  in  silence.  Beatrice  gave  her 
hand  without  a  word,  lifelessly  and 
coldly ;  Despard  took  Ms  hand  ab- 
stractedly. 

Brandon  looked  earnestly  at  Beatrice 
as  she  stood  there  before  him,  calm,  sad, 
passionless,  almost  repellent  in  her 
demeanor,  and  wondered  what  the 
cause  might   be  of  such  a  change. 

Mrs.  Compton  stood  apart  at  a  little 
distance,  near  Philips,  and  looked  on 
with  a  strange  expression,  half  wistful, 
half  timid. 

There  was  a  silence  which  at  length 
became  embarrassing.  From  the  room 
where  they  were  sitting  the  inn  could 
plainly  be  seen,  with  the  crowd  outside. 
Beatrice's  eyes  were  directed  toward 
this.  Despard  said  not  a  word.  At 
another  time  he  might  have  been 
strongly  interested  in  this  man,  who  on 


so  many  accounts  was  so  closely  con- 
nected with  him ;  but  now  the  power  of 
some  dominant  and  all-engrossing  i(k;L 
possessed  him,  and  he  seemed  to  take 
no  notice  of  anything  whatever  either 
without    the  house  or  within. 

After  looking  in  silence  at  the  inn  for 
a  long  time  Beatrice  withdrew  her  gaze. 
Brandon  regarded  her  with  a  fixed  and 
earnest  glance,  as  though  he  would  read 
her  inmost  soul.  She  looked  at  him, 
and  cast  down   her  eyes. 

"  You  abhor  me  ! "  said  he,  in  a  loud, 
thrilling  voice. 

She  said  nothing,  but  pointed  toward 
the  inn. 

"  You  know  all  about  that  ?  " 

Beatrice  bowed  her  head  silently. 

"  And  you  look  upon  me  as  guilty  ? " 

She  gazed  at  him,  but  said  nothing. 
It  was  a  cold,  austere  gaze,  without  one 
touch  of  softness. 

"  After  all,"  said  she,  "  he  was  my 
father.  You  had  your  vengeance  to  take, 
and  you  have  taken  it.  You  may  now 
exult,  but  my  heart  bleeds." 

Brandon  started  to  his  feet. 

"  As  God  lives,"  he  cried,  "  I  did  not 
do  that  thing  !  " 

Beatrice  looked  up  mournfully  and 
enquiringly. 

"  If  it  had  been  his  base  life  which 
I  sought,"  said  Brandon  vehemently, 
"  I  might  long  ago  have  taken  it.  He 
was  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  my 
power.  He  could  not  escape.  Officers 
of  the  law  stood  ready  to  do  my  bidding. 
Yet  I  allowed  him  to  leave  the  Hall  in 
safety.  I  might  have  taken  his  heart's 
blood.  I  might  have  handed  him  over  to 
the  law.     I  did  not." 

"  No,"  said  Beatrice  in  icy  tones,  "  you 
did  not ;  you  sought  a  deeper  vengeance. 
You  cared  not  to  take  his  life.  It  was 
sweeter  to  you  to  take  his  son's  life  and 


MRS.    COMPTON'S   secret 


»95 


vas  so  closely  con- 
it  now  the  power  of 
all-engrossing  idn 
he  seemed  to  take 
ing  whatever  either 
or  within, 
ilence  at  the  inn  for 
:  withdrew  her  gaze. 
er  with  a  fixed  and 
lough  he  would  read 
she  looked  at  him, 
•  eyes. 
"  said  he, in  a  loud, 

,  but  pointed  toward 

)out  that  ?  " 
er  head  silently, 
pon  me  as  guilt v  ? " 
m,  but  said  nothing. 
re  gaze,  without  one 

1  she,  "he  was  my 

lur  vengeance  to  take, 

n  it.    You  may  now 

rt  bleeds." 

to  his  feet. 

he  cried,  "  I  did  not 

up    mournfully  and 

his  base  life    which 

Brandon    vehemently, 

have  taken  it.    He 

on    all  sides    by    my 

not   escape.    Officers 

ady  to  do  my  bidding. 

to  leave  the  Hall  in 
lave  taken  his  heart's 
ive  handed  him  over  to 
:." 

trice  in  icy  tones, "  you 

It  a  deeper  vengeance. 

take  his  life.     It  was 

take  his  son's  life  and 


give  him  agony.  Death  would  have 
been  insufficient — anguish  was  what  you 
wished. 

"  It  is  not  for  me  to  blame  you,"  she 
continued,  while  Brandon  looked  at  her 
without  a  word.  "Who  am  I — a  pol- 
luted one,  of  the  accursed  brood — who 
am  I,  to  stand  between  you  and  him,  or 
to  blame  you  if  you 'seek  for  vengeance? 
I  am  nothing.  You  have  done  kindnesses 
to  me  which  I  now  wish  were  undone. 
Oh,  that  I  had  died  under  the  hand  of  the 
pirates  !  Oh,  that  the  ocean  had  swept 
nie  down  to  death  with  all  its  waves ! 
Then  I  should  not  have  lived  to  see  this 
day !  "• 

Roused  by  her  vehemence  Despard 
started  from  his  abstraction  and  looked 
around. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  he, "  as  if  you 
were  blaming  someone  for  inflicting  suf- 
fering on  a  man  for  whom  no  suffering 
can  be  too  great.  What!  can  you  think 
of  your  friend  as  he  lies  there  in  the  next 
room  in  his  agony,  dying,  torn  to  pieces 
by  this  man's  agency,  and  have  pity  for 
him  ?" 

"  Oh ! "  cried  Beatrice,  "  is  he  not  my 
father?" 

Mrs.  Compton  looked  around  with 
staring  eyes,  and  trembled  from  head 
to  foot.  Her  lips  moved — she  began  to 
speak,  but  the  words  died  away  on  her 
lips. 

"  Your  father ! "  said  Despard.  "  His 
acts  have  cut  him  off  from  a  daughter's 
sympathy." 

"Yet  he  has  a  father's  feelings,  at 
least  for  his  dead  son.  Never  shall  I 
forget  his  look  of  anguish  as  he  stood 
on  the  balcony.  His  face  was  turned 
this  way.     He  seemed  to  reproach  me." 

"  Let  me  tell  you,"  cried  Despard 
harshly,  "  he  has  not  yet  made  atone- 
ment for  his  crimes.    This  is  but  the 

30 


beginning.  I, have  a  debt  of  vengeance 
to  extort  from  him.  One  scoundrel  has 
been  handed  over  to  the  law,  another 
lies  dead,  another  is  in  London  in  the 
hands  of  Langhetti's  friends,  the  Car- 
bonari. The  worst  one  yet  remains, 
and  my  father's  voice  cries  to  me  day 
and  night  from  that  dreadful  ship." 

"Your  father's  voice!"  cried  Beatrice. 
She  looked  at  Despa /d.  Their  eyes  met. 
Something  passed  between  them  in  that 
glance  which  brought  back  the  old, 
mysterious  feeling  which  she  had  known 
before.  Despard  rose  hastily  and  left 
the   room. 

"  In  God's  name,"  cried  Brandon,  "  I 
say  that  this  man's  life  was  not  sought 
by  me,  nor  the  life  of  any  of  his.  I  will 
tell  you  all.  When  he  compassed  the 
death  of  Uracao,  of  whom  you  know,  he 
obtained  possession  of  his  son,  then  a 
mere  boy,  and  carried  him  away.  He 
kept  this  lad  with  him  and  brought  him 
up  with  the  idea  that  he  was  his  best 
friend,  and  that  he  would  one  day  show 
him  his  father's  murderer.  After  I  made 
myself  known  to  him,  he  told  Vijal  that 
I  was  this  murderer.  Vijal  tried  to  as- 
sassinate me.  I  foiled  him,  and  could 
have  killed  him.  But  I  spared  his  life. 
I  then  told  him  the  truth.  That  is  all 
that  I  have  done.  Of  course,  I  knew  that 
Vijal  would  seek  for  vengeance.  That 
was  not  my  concern.  Since  Potts  had 
sent  him  to  seek  my  life  under  a  lie,  I 
sent  him  away  with  a  knowledge  of  the 
truth.  I  do  not  repent  that  I  told  him ; 
nor  is  there  any  guilt  chargeable  to  me. 
The  man  that  lies  dead  there  is  not  my 
victim.  Yet  if  he  were — O  Beatrice ! 
if  he  were — what  then  ?  Could  that 
atone  for  what  I  have  suffered?  My 
father,  ruined  and  broken-hearted  and 
dying  in  a  poorhouse,  calls  to  me  always 
for  vengeance.    My  mother,  suffering  in 


296 


CORD    AND    CREESE 


o 
o 

-J 

o 

CO 


( ; 


i; 


the  emigrant  ship,  and  dying  of  the 
plague  annid  horrors  without  a  name, 
calls  to  me.  Above  all,  my  sweet  sister, 
my  pure  Edith " 

"  Edith  ! "  interrupted  Beatrice  — 
"  Edith ! " 

*'  Yes ;  do  you  not  know  that  ?  She 
was  buried  alive  !  " 

"  What ! "  cried  Beatrice  ;  "  is  it  pos- 
sible that  you  do  not  know  that  she  is 
alive  ?  " 

"  Alive ! " 

"  Yes,  alive ;  for  when  I  was  at  Holby 
I  saw  her." 

Brandon  stood  speechless  with  surprise. 

"  Langhetti  saved  her,"  said  Beatrice. 
"  His  sister  has  charge  of  her  now." 

"  Where,  where  is  she  ?  "  asked  Bran- 
don wildly. 

"  In  a  convent  at  London." 

At  this  moment  Despard  entered. 

"  Is  this  true  ?  "  asked  Brandon,  with  a 
deeper  agitation  than  had  ever  yet  been 
seen  in  him — "  wy  sister,  is  it  true  that 
she  is  not  dead  ?  " 

"  It  is  true.  I  should  have  told  you," 
said  Despard,  "  but  other  thoughts  drove 
it  from  my  mind,  and  I  forgot  that  you 
might  be  ignorant." 

"  How  is  it  possible  ?  I  was  at  Quebec 
myself.  I  have  sought  over  the  world 
after  my  relatives " 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  said  Despard. 

He  sat  down  and  began  to  tell  the 
story  of  Edith's  voyage  and  all  that 
Langhetti  had  done,  down  to  the  time  of 
his  rescue  of  her  from  death.  The  recital 
filled  Brandon  with  such  deep  amazement 
that  he  had  not  a  word  to  say.  He  list- 
ened like  one  stupefied. 

"  Thank  God  !  "  he  cried  at  last  when 
it  was  ended  ;  "  thank  God,  I  am  spared 
this  last  anguish ;  I  am  freed  from  the 
thought  which  for  years  has  been  most 
intolerable.    The  memories  that  remain 


are  bitter  enough,  but  they  are  not  so 
terrible  as  this.  But  I  must  see  her.  I 
mu'-t  find  her.    Where  is  she  ?  " 

"  Make  yourself  easy  on  that  score," 
said  Despard  calmly.  "  She  will  be  here 
to-morrow  or  the  day  after.  I  have 
written  to  Langhetti's  sister;  she  will 
come,  and  will  bring  your  sister  with 
her." 

"  I  should  have  told  you  so  before," 
said  Beatrice,  "but  my  own  troubles 
drove  everything  else  from  my  mind." 

"  Forgive  me,"  said  Brandon,  "  for 
intruding  now.  I  came  in  to  learn  about 
Langhetti.  You  look  upon  me  with 
horror.    I  will  withdraw." 

Beatrice  bowed  her  head,  and  tears 
streamed  from  her  eyes.  Brandon  took 
her  hand. 

"  Farewell,"  he  murmured  ;  "  farewell, 
Beatrice  You  will  not  condemn  nie 
when  I  say  that  I  am  innocent  ?  " 

"I  am  accursed,"  she  murmured. 

Despard  looked  at  these  two  with 
deep  anxiety. 

"  Stay,"  said  he  to  Brandon.  "  There 
is  something  which  must  be  explained. 
There  is  a  secret  which  Langhetti  has 
had  for  years,  and  which  he  has  several 
times  been  on  the  point  of  telling.  I 
have  just  spoken  to  him  and  told  him 
that  you  are  here.  He  says  he  will  tell 
his  secret  now,  whatever  it  is.  He  wishes 
us  all  to  come  in — and  you  too,  especially," 
said  Despard,  looking  at  Mrs.  Compton. 

The  poor  old  creature  began  to  tremble. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  old  woman,"  said 
Philips.  "  Take  my  arm,  and  I'll  protect 
you." 

She  rose,  and,  leaning  on  his  arm,  fol- 
lowed the  otheis  into  Langhetti's  room. 
He  was  fearfully  emaciated.  His  ma* 
terial  frame,  worn  down  by  pain  and 
confinement,  seemed  about  to  dissolve 
and  let  free  that  soaring  soul  of  his,  whose 


MRS.    COMPTON's   secret 


297 


o  Brandon.    "There 
must  be  explained. 
which  Langhetti  has 
which  he  has  several 
point  of  telling.    I 
Lo  him  and  told  him 
He  says  he  will  tell 
.tever  it  is.    He  wishes 
id  you  too,  especially," 
ng  at  Mrs.  Compton. 
iture  began  to  tremble, 
d,  old  woman,"  said 
y  arm,  and  I'll  protect 

aning  on  his  arm,  fol- 
nto  Langhetti's  room. 
emaciated.  His  ma* 
down  by  pain  and 
ed  about  to  dissolve 
iring  soul  of  his,  whose 


fiery  impulses  had  for  years  chafed  against 
the  prison  bars  of  its  mortal  enclosure. 
His  eyes  shone  darkly  and  luminously 
from  their  deep,  hollow  sockets,  and  upon 
his  thin,  wan,  white  lips  there  was  a  faint 
smile  of  welcome — faint  like  the  smile  of 
the  sick,  yet  sweet  as  the  smile  of  an 
angel. 

It  was  with  such  a  smile  that  he 
greeted  Brandon,  and  with  both  his  thin 
white  hands  pressed  the  strong  and  mus- 
cular hand  of  the  other. 

"And  you  are  Edith's  brother,"  he 
said.  "  Edith's  brother,"  he  repeated, 
resting  lovingly  upon  that  name,  Edith. 
"  She  always  said  you  were  alive,  and  once 
she  told  me  she  should  live  to  see  you. 
Welcome,  brother  of  my  Edith !  I  am  a 
dying  man.  Edith  said  her  other  brother 
was  alive — Frank.  Where  is  Frank? 
Will  he  not  come  to  stand  by  the  bedside 
of  his  dying  friend  ?    He  did  so  once." 

"  He  will  come,"  said  Jrandon  in  a 
voice  choked  with  emotion,  as  he  pressed 
the  hand  of  the  dying  man.  "  He  will 
come,  and  at  once." 

"  And  you  will  all  be  here  then— sweet 
friends!    It  is  well." 

He  paused. 

"  Bice  I "  said  he  at  last. 

Beatrice,  who  was  sitting  by  his  head, 
bent  down  toward  him. 

"  Bice,"  said  Langhetti.  "  My  pocket- 
book  is  in  my  coat,  and  if  you  open  the 
inside  pocket  you  will  find  something 
wrapped  in  paper.    Bring  it  to  me." 

Beatrice  found  the  pocket-book  and 
opened  it  as  directed.  In  the  inside 
pocket  there  was  a  thin,  small  parcel. 
She  opened  it  and  drew  forth  a  very 
small  baby's  stocking. 

"  Look  at  the  mark,"  said  Langhetti. 

Beatrice  did  so,  and  saw  two  letters 
marked  on  it — B.  D. 

"  This  Wfis  given  ine  by  your  nurse  at 


Hong  Kong.  '  She  said  your  things  were 
all  marked  with  those  letters  when  you 
were  first  brought  to  her.  She  did  not 
know  what  it  meant.  '  B '  meant  Bea- 
trice ;  but  what  did  '  D  '  mean  ?  " 

All  around  that  bedside  exchanged 
glances  of  wonder.  Mrs.  Compton  was 
most  agitated. 

"  Take  me  away,"  she  murmured  to 
Philips.    But  Philips  would  not. 

"  Cheer  up,  old  woman  ! "  said  he. 
"  There's  nothing  to  fear  now.  That 
devil  won't  hui .  you." 

"  Now,  in  my  deep  interest  in  you,  and 
in  my  affection,  I  tried  to  find  out  what 
this  meant.  The  nurse  and  I  often 
talked  about  it.  She  told  me  that  your 
father  never  cared  particularly  about  you, 
and  that  it  was  strange  for  your  clothing 
to  be  marked  '  D '  if  your  name  was 
Potts.  It  was  a  thing  which  greatly 
troubled  her.  I  made  many  enquiries.  I 
found  out  about  the  Manilla  murder  case. 
From  that  moment  I  suspected  that '  D  ' 
meant  Despard." 

"  Oh,  Heavens  ! "  sighed  Beatrice,  in  an 
agony  of  suspense.  Brandon  and  Des- 
pard stood  motionless,  waiting  for  some- 
thing further. 

"  This  is  what  I  tried  to  solve.  I  made 
enquiries  everywhere.  At  last  I  gave  it 
up.  But  when  circumstances  threw  'Bea- 
trice again  in  my  way  I  tried  again.  I 
have  always  been  baffled.  There  is  only 
one  who  can  tell — only  one.  She  is  here, 
in  this  room  ;  and,  in  the  name  of  Goi:, 
I  call  upon  her  to  speak  out  and  tell  the 
truth." 

"  Who  ?  "  cried  Despard,  while  he  and 
Brandon  both  looked  earnestly  at  Mrs. 
Compton. 

"  Mrs.  Compton  !  "  said  Langhetti ; 
and  his  voice  seemed  to  die  away  from 
exhaustion. 

Mrs.  Compton  was  seized  with  a  panic 


298 


CORD    AND   CREESE 


t,^ 


more  overpoweiing  than  usual.  She 
gasped  for  breath. 

"  Oh,  Lord  !  "  she  cried.  "  Oh,  Lord  ! 
Spare  me  !  spare  me  !    He'll  kill  me !  " 

Brandon  walked  up  to  her  and  took  her 
hand. 

"  Mrs.  Compton,"  said  he  in  a  calm, 
resolute  voice,  "  your  timidity  has  been 
your  curse.  There  is  no  need  for  tear 
now — I  will  protect  you.  The  man  whom 
you  have  feared  so  many  years  is  now 
ruined,  helpless,  and  miserable.  !  could 
destroy  him  at  this  moment  if  I  chose. 
You  are  foolish  if  you  fear  him.  Your 
son  is  with  you.  His  arm  supports  you, 
and  I  stand  here  ready  to  protect  both 
you  and  your  son.  Speak  out,  and  tell 
what  you  know.  Your  husband  is  still 
living.  He  longs  for  your  return.  You 
and  your  son  are  free  from  your  enemies. 
Trust  in  me,  and  you  shall  both  go 
back  to  him  and  live  in  peace." 

Tears  fell  from  Mrs.  Compton's  eyes. 
She  seized  Brandon's  hand  and  pressed 
it  to  her  thin  lips. 

"  You  will  protect  me  ?  "  said  she. 

"Yes." 

"  You  will  save  me  from  him  ?  "  she 
persisted,  in  a  voice  of  agony. 

"Yes,  and  from  all  others  like  him. 
Do  not  fear.     Speak  out." 

Mrs.  Compton  clung  to  the  arm  of  her 
son  ;  she  drew  a  long  breath  ;  she  looked 
up  into  his  face  as  though  to  gain  cour- 
age, and  then  began. 

It  was  a  long  story.  She  had  been  at- 
tendant and  nurse  to  the  wife  of  Colonel 
Despard,  who  had  died  in  giving  birth  to 
a  child.  Potts  had  brought  news  of  her 
death,  but  had  said  nothing  whatever 
about  the  child.  Colonel  Despard  knew 
nothing  of  it.  Being  at  a  distance  at  the 
time  on  duty,  he  had  heard  but  the  one 
fact  of  his  wife's  death,  and  all  other 
things  were  forgotten.    He  had  not  even 


made  enquiries  as  to  whether  the  child 
which  he  had  expected  was  alive  or  dead, 
but  had  at  once  given  way  to  the  grief  of 
the  bereavement  and  had  hurried  off. 

In  his  designs  on  Colonel  DespnnI, 
Potts  feared  that  the  knowledge  of  the 
existence  of  a  child  might  keep  him  in 
India  and  distract  his  mind  from  its  sot- 
row.  Therefore  he  was  the  more  anxious 
not  only  to  keep  this  secret,  but  also  to 
prevent  it  from  ever  being  known  to  Colo- 
nel Despard.  With  this  idea  he  hurried 
the  preparation  of  the  ^t's/intt  to  such  an 
extent  that  it  was  ready  for  sea  almost 
immediately,  and  left  with  Colonel  Des- 
pard on  that  ill-fated  voyaf  2. 

Mrs.  Compton  had  been  left  in  India 
with  the  child.  Her  son  joined  her,  in 
company  with  John,  who,  though  only 
a  boy,  had  the  vices  of  a  grown  man, 
Months  passed  before  Potts  came  back. 
He  then  took  her  along  with  the  child  to 
China,  and  left  the  latter  with  a  respect- 
able woman  at  Hong  Kong,  who  was 
the  widow  of  a  British  naval  officer.  Tlie 
child  was  Beatrice  Despard. 

Potts  always  feared  that  Mrs.  Comp- 
ton might  divulge  his  secret,  and  there- 
fore always  kept  her  with  him.  Timid 
by  nature  to  an  unusual  degree,  the 
wretched  woman  was  in  constant  fear 
for  her  life,  and  as  years  passed  on  this 
fear  was  not  lessened.  The  sufferings 
which  she  felt  from  this  terror  were 
atoned  for,  however,  by  the  constant 
presence  cf  her  son,  who  remaineJ  in 
connection  with  Potts,  influenced  chiefly 
by  the  ascendency  which  this  villain  had 
over  a  man  of  his  weak  and  timid  nature. 
Potts  had  brought  them  to  England,  and 
they  had  lived  in  different  places,  until  at 
last  Brandon  Hall  had  fallen  into  his 
hands.  Of  the  former  occupants  of 
Brandon  Hall,  Mrs.  Compton  knew 
almost   nothing.    Very   little   had  ever 


MRS.    rOMPTON  S   SECRET 


299 


to  whether  the  child 
;ed  was  alive  or  dead, 
:n  way  to  the  grief  of 
1  had  hurried  off. 
in  Colonel  Despnrd, 
e  knowledge  of  tlie 

might  keep  him  in 
is  mind  from  its  sur- 
was  the  more  anxious 
is  secret,  but  also  to 
being  known  to  Colo- 

this  idea  he  hurried 
lie  l/is/inu  to  such  an 
ready  for  sea  almost 
ft  with  Colonel  Des- 
d  voyaf  2. 

id  been  left  in  India 
er  son  joined  her,  \\\ 
n,  who,  though  only 
es  of  a  grown  man. 
)re  Potts  came  back. 
ong  with  the  child  to 
latter  with  a  respect- 
ong  Kong,  who  was 
sh  naval  officer.  Tlie 
Despard. 

red  that  Mrs.  Conip- 
his  secret,  and  there- 
ler  with  him.    Timid 

unusual  degree,  the 
Aras  in  constant  fear 
years  passed  on  tliis 
ned.  The  sufferings 
om  this  terror  were 
er,  by  the  constant 
3n,  who  remained  in 
>tts,  influenced  chiefly 
which  this  villain  had 
/eak  and  timid  nature, 
them  to  England,  and 
fferent  places,  until  at 
[  had  fallen  into  his 
jrmer  occupants  of 
Irs.  Compton  knew 
Very   little   had  ever 


been  said  about  them  to  her.  She  knew 
scarcely  anything  about  them,  except 
that  their  name  was  Brandon,  and  that 
they  had  suffered  misfortunes. 

Finally,  this  Beatrice  was  Beatrice 
Despard,  the  daughter  of  Colonel  Des- 
pard  and  the  sister  of  the  clergyman  then 
present.  She  herself,  instead  of  being 
the  daughter  of  Potts,  had  been  one  of 
his  victims,  and  had  suffered  not  the  least 
at  his  hands. 

This  astounding  revelation  was  checked 
by  frequent  interruptions.  The  actual 
story  of  her  true  parentage  overwhelmed 
Beatrice.  This  was  the  awful  thought 
which  had  occurred  to  herself  frequently 
before.  This  was  what  had  moved  her 
so  deeply  in  reading  the  manuscript  of 
her  father  on  that  African  isle.  This  also 
was  the  thing  which  had  always  made 
her  hate  with  such  intensity  the  mis- 
creant who  pretended  to  be  her  father. 

Now  she  was  overwhelmed.  She  threw 
herself  into  the  arms  of  her  brother  and 
wept  upon  his  breast.  Courtenay  Despard 
for  a  moment  rose  above  the  gloom  that 
oppressed  him  and  pressed  to  his  heart 
this  sister  so  strangely  discovered.  Bran- 
don stood  apart,  looking  on,  shaken  to 
the  soul  and  unnerved  by  the  deep  joy 
of  that  unparalleled  discovery.  Amid  all 
the  speculations  in  which  he  had  in- 
dulged the  very  possibility  of  this  had 
never  suggested  itself.  He  had  believed 
most  implicitlv  all  along  that  Beatrice 
was  in  reality  the  daughter  of  his  mortal 
enemy.  Now  the  discovery  of  the  truth 
came  upon  him  with  overwhelming  force. 

She  raised  herself  from  her  brother's 
embrace,  and  turned  and  looked  upon  the 
man  whom  she  adored— the  one  who,  as 
she  said,  had  over  and  over  again  saved 
her  life ;  the  one  whose  life  she,  too,  in 
her  turn  had  saved,  with  whom  she  had 
passed  so  many  adventurous  and  momen- 


tous days— days  of  alternating  peace  and 
storm,  of  varying  hope  and  despair.  To 
him  she  owed  everything;  to  him  she 
owed  even  the  rapture  of  this  moment. 

As  their  eyes  met  they  revealed  all 
their  inmost  thoughts.  There  was  now 
no  barrier  between  them.  Vanished 
was  the  insuperable  obstacle,  vanished 
the  impassable  gulf.  They  stood  side 
by  side.  The  enemy  of  this  man — his 
foe,  his  victim — was  also  hers.  What- 
ever he  might  suffer,  whatever  anguish 
might  have  been  on  the  face  of  that  old 
man  who  had  looked  at  her  from  the 
balcony,  she  had  clearly  no  part  nor  lot 
now  in  that  suffering  or  that  anguish. 
He  was  the  murderer  of  her  father.  She 
was  not  the  daughter  of  this  man.  She 
was  of  no  vulgar  or  sordid  race.  Her 
blood  was  no  longer  polluted  or  accursed. 
She  was  of  pure  and  noble  lineage.  She 
was  a  Despard. 

*'  Beatrice,"  said  Brandon,  with  a  deep, 
fervid  emotion  in  his  voice ;  "  Beatrice,  I 
am  yours,  and  you  are  mine.  Beatrice. 
it  was  a  lie  that  kept  us  apart.  My  life 
is  yours,  and  yours  is  mine." 

He  thought  of  nothing  but  her.  He 
spoke  with  burning  impetuosity.  His 
wore  .  sank  into  her  soul.  His  eyes  de- 
voured hers  in  the  passion  of  their  glance. 

"  Beatrice — my  Beatrice !  "  he  said. 
"  Beatrice  Despard " 

He  spoke  low,  bending  his  head  to  hers. 
Her  head  sank  toward  his  breast. 

" Beatrice,  do  you  now  reproach  me? " 
he  murmured. 

She  held  out  her  hand,  while  tears 
stood  in  her  eyes.  Brandon  seized  it  and 
covered  it  with  kisses.  Despard  saw  this. 
In  the  midst  of  the  anguish  of  his  face  a 
smile  shone  forth,  like  sunshine  out  of  a 
clouded  sky.  He  lookea  at  these  two 
for  a  moment. 
1     Langhetti's  eyes  were  closed.     Mrs. 


300 


COKD    AND   CREESE 


Compton  and  her  son  were  talking  apart. 
Despard  looked  upon  the  lovers. 

"  Let  them  love,"  he  murmured  to 
himself;  "let  them  love  and  be  happy. 
Heaven  has  its  favorites.  I  do  not  envy 
them ;  I  bless  them,  though  I  love  with- 


out hope.  Heaven  has  ks  favorites,  but 
I  am  an  outcast  from  that  favor." 

A  shudder  passed  through  him.  Ik- 
drew  hin)sclf  up. 

"  Since  love  is  denied  me,"  he  thought, 
"  I  can  at  least  have  vengeance." 


CHAPTER    LVHI 


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QC 
Ul 
K 

i 


CO 

pc 


THE  MALAY'S  VENGEANCE 


Some  hours  afterward  Despard  called 
Brandon  outside  the  cottage,  and  walked 
along  the  bank  which  overhung  the  beach. 
Arriving  at  a  point  several  hundred  yards 
distant  from  the  cottage  he  stopped. 
Brandon  noticed  a  deeper  gloom  upon 
his  face  and  a  sterner  purpose  on  his 
resolute  mouth. 

*'  I  have  called  you  aside,"  said  Des- 
pard, "to  say  that  I  am  going  on  a 
journey.  I  may  be  back  immediately. 
If  I  do  not  return,  will  you  say  to  anyone 
who  may  ask  " — and  here  he  paused  for 
a  moment — "  say  to  anyone  who  may 
ask,  that  I  have  gone  away  on  important 
business,  and  that  the  time  of  my  coming 
is  uncertain." 

"  I  suppose  you  can  be  heard  of  at 
H  'by,  in  case  of  need." 

'  I  am  never  going  back  again  to 
Holby." 

Brandon  looked  surprised. 

"  To  one  like  you,"  said  Despard,  "  I 
do  not  object  to  tell  my  purpose.  You 
know  what  it  is  to  seek  for  vengeance. 
The  only  feeling  that  I  have  is  that. 
Love,  tenderness,  affection,  all  are  idle 
words  with  me. 

"  There  are  three  who  pre-eminently 
were  concerned  in  my  father's  death," 


continued  Despard.  "  One  was  CIgole. 
The  Carbonari  have  him.  Langhetti 
tells  me  that  he  must  die,  unless  he  him- 
self interposes  to  save  him.  And  I  think 
Langhetti  will  never  so  interpose.  Lan- 
ghetti is  dying — another  stimulus  to  ven- 
geance. 

"  The  one  who  has  been  the  cause  of 
this  is  Clark,  another  one  of  my  father's 
murderers.  He  is  in  the  hands  of  the  law. 
His  punishment  is  certain. 

•'  There  yet  remains  the  third,  and  the 
worst.  Your  vengeance  is  satisfied  on 
him.  Mine  is  not.  Not  even  the  sight 
of  that  miscreant  in  the  attitude  cf  a  be- 
reaved father  could  for  one  moment  move 
me  to  pity.  I  took  note  of  the  agony  of 
his  face.  I  watched  his  grief  with  joy. 
I  am  going  to  complete  that  joy.  He 
must  die,  and  no  mortal  can  save  him 
from  my  hands." 

The  deep,  stern  tones  of  Despard  were 
like  the  knell  of  doom,  and  there  was 
in  them  such  determinate  vindictiveness 
that  Brandon  saw  all  remonstrance  to 
be  useless. 

He  marked  the  pale,  sad  face  of  this 
man.  He  saw  in  it  the  traces  of  sorrow 
of  longer  standing  than  any  which  he 
might  have  felt  about  the  manuscript  that 


THE    MALAY  S    VENGEANCE 


301 


he  had  read.  It  was  the  face  of  a  man 
who  had  suffered  so  much  that  hfe  had 
become  a  burden. 

"  You  are  a  clergyman,"  said  Rrandon 
at  length,  with  a  faint  hope  that  an  ap- 
peal to  his  profession  might  have  some 
effect. 

Despard  smiled  cynically. 

"  I  am  a  man,"  said  he. 

**  Cannot  the  discovery  of  a  sister," 
asked  Brandon,  "  atone  in  some  degree 
for  your  grief  about  your  father?  " 

Despard  shook  his  head  wearily. 

"  No,"  said  he ;  "  I  must  do  something, 
and  only  one  purpose  is  before  me  now. 
I  see  your  motive.  You  wish  to  stop 
short  of  taking  that  devil's  life.  It  is  use- 
less to  remonstrate.  My  mind  is  made 
up.  Perhaps  I  may  come  back  unsuc- 
cessful. If  so — 1  must  be  resigned,  I  sup- 
pose. At  any  rate  you  know  my  pur- 
pose, and  can  let  those  who  ask  after 
me  know,  in  a  general  way,  what  I  have 
said," 

With  a  slight  bow  Despard  walked 
away,  leaving  Brandon  standing  there 
tilled  with  thoughts  which  were  half 
mournful,   half  remorseful. 

On  leaving  Brandon  Despard  went  at 
once  to  the  inn.  The  crowd  without  had 
dwindled  away  to  half  a  dozen  people, 
who  were  still  talking  about  the  one 
event  of  the  day.  Making  his  way 
through  these  he  entered  the  inn. 

The  landlord  stood  there  with  a 
puzzled  face,  discussing  with  several 
friends  the  case  of  the  day.  More  par- 
ticularly he  was  troubled  by  the  sudden 
departure  of  the  old  man,  who  about  an 
hour  previously  had  started  off  in  a  great 
hurry,  leaving  no  directions  whatever  as 
to  what  was  to  be  done  with  the  body 


upstairs.     It  was  this  which  now  per- 
plexed  the  landlord. 

Despard  listened  attentively  to  the 
conversation.  The  landlord  mentioned 
that  Potts  had  taken  the  road  to  Bran- 
don. The  servant  who  had  been  with 
the  young  man  had  not  been  seen.  If 
the  old  man  did  not  return,  what  was  to 
be  done? 

This  was  enough  for  Despard,  who 
had  his  horse  saddled  without  delay  and 
started  also  on  the  Brandon  road.  He 
rode  on  swiftly  for  some  time,  hoping  to 
overtake  the  man  whom  he  pursued.  He 
rode,  however,  several  miles  without  com- 
ing in  sight  of  him  or  of  anyone  like 
him.  At  last  he  reached  that  hollow 
which  had  been  the  scene  of  his  en- 
counter with  Clark.  As  he  descended 
into  it  he  saw  a  group  of  men  by  the 
roadside  surrounding  some  object.  In 
the  middle  of  the  road  was  a  farmer's 
wagon,  and  a  horse  was  standing  in  the 
distance. 

Despard  rode  up  and  saw  the  pros- 
trate figure  of  a  man.  He  dismounted. 
The  farmers  stood  aside  and  disclosed 
the  face. 

It  was  Potts. 

Despard  stooped  down.  It  was  already 
dusk  ;  but  even  in  that  dim  light  he  saw 
the  coils  of  a  thin  cord  wound  tightly 
around  the  neck  of  this  victim,  from  one 
end  of  which  a  leaden  bullet  hung  down. 

By  that  light  also  he  saw  the  hilt  of 
a  weapon  which  had  been  plunged  into 
his  heart,  from  which  the  blood  had 
flowed  in  torrents. 

It  was  a  Malay  creese.  Upon  the 
handle  was  carven  a  name  : 

JOHN  POTTS. 


CHAPTER  LIX 


o 
o 

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cc 

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o 


CO 


Aevre  TeTiEvralov  aonaa/iov  Sufiev 


The  excitement  which  had  prevailed 
through  the  village  of  Denton  was  in- 
tensified by  the  arrival  there  of  the  body 
of  the  old  man.  For  his  mysterious 
death  no  one  could  account  except  one 
person. 

That  one  was  Brandon,  whom  Des- 
pard  surprised  by  his  speedy  return,  and 
to  whom  he  narrated  the  circumstances 
of  the  discovery.  Brandon  knew  who  it 
was  whc  could  wield  that  cord,  what  arm 
it  was  that  had  held  that  weapon,  and 
what  heart  it  was  that  was  animated  by 
sufficient  vengeance  to  strike  these  blows. 

Despard,  finding  his  purpose  thus  un- 
expectedly taken  away,  remained  in  the 
village  and  waited.  There  was  one 
whom  he  wished  to  see  again.  On  the 
following  day  Frank  Brandon  arrived 
from  London.  He  met  Langhetti  with 
deep  emotion,  and  learned  from  his 
brother  the  astonishing  story  of  Edith. 

On  the  following  day  that  long-lost 
sister  herself  appeared  in  company  with 
Mrs.  Thornton.  Her  form,  always 
fragile,  now  appeared  frailer  than  ever, 
her  face  had  a  deeper  pallor,  her  eyes  an 
intenser  lustre,  her  expression  was  more 
unearthly.  The  joy  which  the  brothers 
felt  at  finding  their  sister  was  subdued  by 
an  involuntary  awe  which  was  inspired 
by  her  presence.  She  seemed  to  them,  as 
she  had  seemed  to  others,  like  one  who 
had  arisen  from  the  dead. 

At  the  sight  of  ht  r  Langhetti's  face 
grew  radiant — all  pain   seemed  to  leave 


him.  She  bent  over  him,  and  their  wan 
lips  met  in  the  only  kiss  which  they  had 
ever  exchanged,  \\  th  all  that  deep  love 
which  they  had  felt  for  one  another. 
She  sat  by  his  bedside.  She  seemed  to 
appropriate  him  to  herself.  The  others 
acknowledged  this  quiet  claim  and  gave 
way  to  it. 

As  she  kissed  Langhetti's  lips  he  mur- 
mured faintly  : 

"  I  knew  you  would  come." 

"Yes,"  said  Edith.  "We  will  go 
together." 

"  Yes,  sweetest  and  dearest,"  said  Lan- 
ghetti. "  And  therefore  we  meet  now 
never  to  part  again." 

She  looked  at  him  fondly. 

"  The  time  of  our  deliverance  is  near, 
oh,  my  friend." 

"  Near,"  repeated  Langhetti,  with  a 
smile  of  ecstasy — "  near !  Yes,  you  have 
already  by  your  presence  brought  nie 
nearer  to  my  immortality." 

Mrs.  Thornton  was  pale  and  wan  ;  and 
the  shock  which  she  felt  at  the  sight  of 
her  brother  at  first  overcame  her. 

Despard  said  nothing  to  her  through 
the  day,  but  as  evening  came  on  he  went 
up  to  her  and  in  a  low  voice  said,  "  Let 
us  take  a  walk." 

Mrs.  Thornton  looked  at  him  earnestly, 
and  then  put  on  her  bonnet.  It  was 
quite  dark  as  thf.y  left  the  house.  They 
walked  along  the  road.  The  sea  was  on 
their  left. 

"  This  is  the  last  that  we  shall  see  of 


30a 


CORD   AND   CREESE 


303 


ghetti's  lips  he  mur- 


that  we  shall  see  of 


one  another,  Little  Playmate,"  said  Des- 
pard,  after  a  long  silence.  "  I  have  left 
Holby  forever." 

"  Left  Holby !  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Thornton  anxiously. 

*'  To  join  the  army." 

"  The  army ! " 

"  Little  Playmate,"  said  Despard, "  even 
my  discovery  of  my  father's  death  has  not 
changed  me.  Even  my  thirst  for  ven- 
geance could  not  take  the  place  of  my 
love.  Listen — I  flung  myself  with  all  the 
ardor  that  I  could  command  into  the  pur- 
suit of  my  father's  murderers.  I  forced 
myself  to  an  unnatural  pitch  of  pitiless- 
ness  and  vindictiveness.  I  set  out  to 
pursue  one  of  the  worst  of  these  men 
with  the  full  determination  to  kill  him. 
God  saved  me  from  blood-guiltiness.  I 
found  the  man  dead  in  the  road.  After 
this  all  my  passion  for  vengeance  died 
out,  and  I  was  brought  face  to  face  with 
the  old  love  and  the  old  despair.  But 
each  of  us  would  die  rather  than  do  wrong, 
or  go  on  in  a  wrong  course.  The  only 
thing  left  for  us  is  to  separate  for- 
ever." 

"  Yes,  forever,"  murmured  Mrs.  Thorn- 
ton. 

"  Ah,  Little  Playmate,"  he  continued, 
taking  her  hand,  "  you  are  the  one  who 
was  not  only  my  sweet  companion,  but 
the  bright  ideal  of  my  youth.  You 
always  stood  transfierured  in  my  eyes. 
You,  Teresa,  were  in  my  mind  something 
perfect — a  bright,  brilliant  being  unlike 
any  other.  Whether  you  were  really 
what  I  believed  you  mattered  not  so  far 
as  the  effect  upon  me  was  concerned. 
You  were  at  once  a  real  and  an  ideal 
being.  I  believed  in  you,  and  believe  in 
you  yet. 

"  I  was  not  a  lover ;  I  was  a  devotee. 
My  feelings  toward  you  are  such  as 
Dante  describes  his  feelings  toward  his 


Beatrice.  My  love  is  tender  and  rever- 
ential. I  exalt  you  to  a  plane  above  my 
own.  What  I  say  may  sound  extravagant 
to  you,  but  it  is  actual  fact  with  me. 
Why  it  should  be  so  I  cannot  tell.  I  can 
only  say — I  am  so  made. 

"  We  part,  and  I  leave  you ;  but  I 
shall  be  like  Dante,  I  suppose,  and  as  the 
years  pass,  instead  of  weakening  my  love, 
they  will  only  refine  it  and  purify  it.  You 
will  be  to  me  a  guardian  angel,  a  patron 
saint — your  name  shall  always  mingle 
with  my  prayers.  Is  it  impious  to  name 
your  name  in  prayer  ?  I  turn  aw?.y  from 
you  because  I  would  rather  suffer  than 
do  wrong.  May  I  not  pray  for  my 
darling  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  said  Mrs. 
Thornton  wearily.  "  Your  power  over 
me  is  fearful.  Lama,  I  would  do  any- 
thing for  your  sake.  You  talk  about 
your  memories  ;  it  is  not  for  me  to  speak 
about  mine.  Whether  you  idealize  me 
or  not,  after  all,  you  must  know  what  I 
really  am." 

"  Would  you  be  glad  never  to  see  me 
again  ?  " 

The  hand  which  Despard  held  trembled. 

"  If  you  would  b«  happier,"  said  she. 

"  Would  you  be  ^.lad  if  I  could  conquer 
this  love  of  mine,  and  meet  you  again  as 
coolly  as  a  common  friend  ?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  be  happy.  Lama,"  she 
replied.  "  I  would  suffer  myself  to  make 
you  happy." 

She  was  weeping.  Despard  folded  her 
in  his  arms. 

"  This  once,"  said  he,  "  the  only  time, 
Little  Playmate,  in  this  life." 

She  wept  upon  his  breast. 

"TeTievralov  aan.afiov  dufiev"  said  Des- 
pard, murmuring  in  a  low  voice  the  open- 
ing of  the  song  of  the  dead,  so  well 
known,  so  often  sung,  so  fondly  remem- 
bered— the  song  which  bids  farewell  to 


304 


CORD   AND   CHEESE 


the  cjead  w|ien  the  frifsnds  bestow  the 
"last  }(iss." 

He  beqt  dowi>  his  head.  Her  tiead  fell. 
His  lips  toifched  her  forehead. 

She  felt  the  beating  of  his  heart ;  sh^ 
felt  his  frame  tremblp  from  head  to  foot ; 


she  heard  his  deep-drawn  breathing,  every 
breath  a  sigh. 

"  It  is  our  last  farewell,"  said  he  in  a 
voice  of  agony. 

Then  he  tore  himself  away,  and  a  few 
minutes  later  was  riding  from  the  village. 


CHAPTER  LX 


CONCLUSION 


A  MONTH  passed.  Despard  gave  no 
sign.  A  short  note  which  he  wrote  to 
Brandon  announced  his  arrival  at  Lon- 
don, and  informed  him  that  important 
affairs  required  his  departure  abroad. 

The  cottage  was  but  a  small  place, 
and  Brandon  determined  to  have  Lan- 
ghetti  conveyed  to  the  Hall.  An  ambu- 
lance was  obtained  from  Exeter,  and  on 
this  Langhetti  and  Edith  were  taken 
away. 

On  arriving  at  Brandon  Hall  Bea- 
trice found  her  diary  in  its  place  of  con- 
cealment, the  memorial  of  old  sorrows 
which  could  never  be  forgotten.  But 
those  old  sorrows  were  passing  away 
now,  in  the  presence  of  her  new  joy. 

And  yet  that  joy  was  darkened  by  the 
cloud  of  a  new  sorrow.  Langhetti  was 
dying.  His  frail  form  became  more  and 
more  atter.i.ated  every  day,  his  eyes  more 
lustrous,  h;s  face  more  spiritual.  Down 
every  step  of  that  way  which  led  to  the 
grave  Edith  went  with  him,  seeming  in 
her  own  face  and  form  to  promise  a  speed- 
ier advent  in  that  spirit-world  where  she 
longed  to  arrive.  Beside  these  Beatrice 
watched,  and  Mrs.  Thornton  added  her 
tender  care. 

Day  by  day  Langhetti   grew  worse. 


At  last  one  day  he  called  for  his  violin. 
He  had  caused  it  to  be  sent  for  on  a 
previous  occasion,  but  had  never  used  it. 
His  love  for  music  was  satisfied  by  the 
songs  of  Beatrice.  Now  he  wished  to 
exert  his  own  skill  with  the  last  remnants 
of  his  strength. 

Langhetti  was  propped  up  by  pillows, 
so  that  he  might  hold  the  instrument. 
Near  him  Edith  reclined  on  a  sofa. 
Her  large  lustrous  eyes  were  fixed  on 
him.  Her  breathing,  which  came  and 
went  rapidly,  showed  her  utter  weakness 
and  prostration. 

Langhetti  drew  his  bow  across  the 
strings. 

It  was  a  strange,  sweet  sound,  weak, 
but  sweet  beyond  all  words — a  long, 
faint,  lingering  tone,  which  rose  and  died 
apd  rose  again,  bearing  aw^y  the  souls 
of  those  who  heard  it  into  a  realm  of 
enchantment  and  delight. 

That  tone  gave  strength  to  Langhetti. 
It  was  as  though  some  unseen  power 
had  been  invoked  and  had  come  to  his 
aid.  The  tones  came  forth  more 
strongly,  on  firmer  pinions,  flying  from 
the  strings  and  towering  through  the  air. 

The  strength  of  these  tones  seemed  to 
emanate  from  some  unseen  power ;  su 


^.- 


CONCLUSION 


30s 


i  bow  across  the 


also  did  their  meaning.  It  was  a  mean- 
ing beyond  what  might  be  intelligible  to 
those  who  listened — a  meaning  beyond 
mortal  thought. 

Yet  Langhetti  understood  it,  and  so  did 
Edith.  Her  eyes  grew  brighter,  a  flush 
started  to  her  wan  cheeks,  her  breathing 
grew  more  rapid. 

The  music  went  on.  More  subtile, 
more  penetrating,  more  thrilling  in  its 
mysterious  meaning,  it  rose  and  swelled 
through  the  air,  like  the  song  of  some 
unseen  ones,  who  were  waiting  for  new- 
comers to  the  Invisible  Land. 

Suddenly  Beatrice  gave  a  piercing  cry. 
She  rushed  to  Edith's  sofa.  Edith  'ay 
back,  her  marble  face  motionless,  her 
white  lips  apart,  her  eyes  looking  upward. 
But  the  lips  breathed  no  more,  and  in  the 
eyes  there  no  longer  beamed  the  light  of 
life. 

At  the  cry  of  Beatrice  the  violin  fell 
from  Langhetti's  hand,  and  he  sank  back. 
His  face  was  turned  toward  Edith.  He 
saw  her  and  knew  it  all. 

He  said  not  a  word,  but  lay  with  his 
face  turned  toward  her.  They  wished  to 
carry  her  away,  but  he  gently  reproved 
them. 

"  Wait ! "  he  murmured.  "  In  a  short 
time  you  will  carry  away  another  also. 
Wait !  " 

They  waited. 

An  hour  before  midnight  all  was  over. 
They  had  passed,  those  pure  spirits, 
from  a  world  which  was  uncongenial  to 
a  fairer  world  and  a  purer  clime. 


They  were  buried  side  by  side  in  the 
Brandon  vaults.  Frank  then  returned  to 
London.  Mrs.  Thornton  went  back  to 
Holby.  The  new  rector  was  surprised 
at  the  request  of  the  lady  of  Thornton 
Grange  to  be  allowed  to  become  organist 
in  Trinity  Church.  She  offered  to  pen- 
sion off  the  old  man  who  now  presided 
there.  Her  request  was  gladly  acceded 
to.  Her  zeal  was  remarkable.  Every  day 
she  visited  the  church  to  practise  at  the 
organ.  This  became  the  purpose  of  her 
life.  Yet  of  all  the  pieces  two  were  per- 
formed most  frequently  in  her  daily  prac- 
tice, the  one  being  the  Agnus  Dei,  the 
other  the  reXevralov  aanaafiov  of  St.  John 
Damascene.    Peace!    Peace!    Peace! 

Was  that  cry  of  hers  unavailing  ?  Of 
Despard  nothing  was  known  for  some 
time.  Mr.  Thornton  once  mentioned  to 
his  wife  that  the  Rev.  Courtenay  Despard 
had  joined  the  Eleventh  Regiment,  and 
had  gone  to  South  Africa.  He  mentioned 
this  because  he  had  seen  a  paragraph 
stating  that  a  Captain  Despard  had  been 
killed  in  the  Kaffir  war,  and  wondered 
whether  it  could  by  any  possibility  be 
their  old  friend  or  not. 

At  Brandon  Hall,  the  one  who  had 
been  so  long  a  prisoner  and  a  slave  soon 
became  mistress. 

The  gloom  which  had  rested  over  the 
house  was  dispelled,  and  Brandon  and 
his  wife  were  soon  able  to  look  back,  even 
to  the  darkest  period  of  their  lives,  with- 
out fear  of  marring  their  perfect  happi- 
ness. 


THE  END. 


